


Samson: A Duet

by amdg2846



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After the agreement to raise the antichrist, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Aziraphale back me up on this, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Devotion, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Food Play, God is going to smite me for writing this fic, Happy Ending, Heavy pining, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Liberation, Like it's not canon NON-compliant, Listen kids if you're not a bit feral for Crowley's long hair I don't know you, M/M, Marriage, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Oaths & Vows, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, References to Hamlet, Rough Sex, Samson - Freeform, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Self-Loathing, Self-Reflection, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Songfic, Spiritual Angst, Strength and weakness, Switching, Temptation, Tenderness, Thwarting Armageddon, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), True Love, Trust, Unrequited Love, and after Eden, casually having an existential crisis all the time, love tokens, marathon sex and cock warming, ok we've left slight and mild in the rearview mirror Aziraphale has a hair kink amen, out of context hamlet quotations as dirty talk, regina spektor - Freeform, religious themed smut, scripture as weird angsty porn, self-respect, slight blasphemy kink, slight exhibitionism, slight mild hair kink maybe, slight mild kink of whatever the fuck is going on with Crowley and Goodness, sort of canon compliant, the solution is to bone down, why Crowley doesn't eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20252062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amdg2846/pseuds/amdg2846
Summary: He left Crawly on the wall, pleading care for the exiled humans, and wandered into the desert, alone. When night fell, he made himself a little fire, and sat hugging his knees and thinking about God, and flaming swords, and apples, and apple-red lips. He stared at the fire, worrying his tongue between his teeth and twisting his fingers, and almost didn’t notice the lonely figure approaching out of the moonless shadows to the west.





	1. Adagio

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [shenhai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenhai/works).
> 
> Based on the song [Samson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8) by Regina Spektor.

**You are my sweetest downfall**

He’s going to do it, of course, he knows he will. He’s known since he heard Crowley’s voice on the telephone this morning: that Crowley would have a scheme in mind to stop the Apocalypse, that he would resist it at first, that Crowley would find a way to convince him. He knew that it would turn into lunch and end with them here, tucked as secret as lovers into the bookshop, his spiritual safehouse—dim lights, corners, and many a shadow. He will help raise the Antichrist. Aziraphale doesn’t need Crowley to tell him that it’ll be a feather in his wing. His mind was made up, deep down, as soon as Crowley’s voice said his name over the wire. And anyway, what’s a few more years of danger, anxiety, lying to Heaven? Eleven more years, the cherry on top of six thousand—not even two tenths of a percent. Just another drop of himself on the sand.

It’s always been like this, hasn’t it, Aziraphale thinks bitterly at Crowley, at himself. Wretched rationality. Aziraphale has struggled and failed since the world began. Crowley will slither up behind him with a plan, a pointed question, some temptation: _ What about an Arrangement, angel?—We’d cancel each other out—What was it he said that got everyone so upset?—Well that’s more the sort of thing you’d expect _ my _ lot to do—What if I did the good thing and you did the bad one? _ Always the draw of doubt, a tacit invitation to slide a bit further away with him. And every time, Aziraphale fumbles and wavers, tries to hold steady (or at least he pretends to). But Crowley is clever and swift, with his quicksilver tongue and his unblinking eyes, a curl of the lip and a curl of his path as he circles, and prowls, and hunts Aziraphale. And every time, Aziraphale slips, and falls.

Can he blame himself? Just look at the demon. Aziraphale’s hands were built for him; they were meant to hold something fiery and sharp. And Crowley’s hands are delicate like lacework. The skin of his cock is delicate like silk. And his hair, his glory, deep as a dying star, smells of woodfire up close, and coils about his face. Aziraphale hasn’t forgotten, no matter that it was only once. No matter how long ago. Every detail is vivid behind his eyes. He has only enough strength at any given moment to not let it happen again. He cannot also be expected to resist Crowley’s other temptations.

So he lets himself wonder and doubt, and makes Arrangements, and goes to lunch, and will help raise the Antichrist. What else can he do? The hunger that gnaws him will not be filled while the insolence of office shadows them like a gathering storm. Aziraphale must be able to let Crowley go, should their association get them into trouble. And if his hands ever thread into that starfire hair again, he knows that he will never let go. It would be easier if Crowley would keep his distance, but he won’t. He chips away at Aziraphale, piece by piece. A meal here, a favour there—the long, slow, crumbling fall. Drip, drip.

But you can’t blame him, he scolds himself. You had fallen, in your way, before you even met him. Aziraphale hasn’t forgotten, either, the last time he stood in the Light of God. It was a very simple question She asked him. _ Where is the flaming sword I gave you? _ He could have answered honestly. He had done what he thought (what he hoped?) was best. But instead he was fearful, and chose his privacy, and She, ever generous, gave it to him—She has never intruded upon it since.

On the high wall, after the Gate was closed, Crowley slithered up behind him for the very first time. He was Crawly then, but the name never mattered much to Aziraphale. The eyes mattered, the softening flick of the lashes in soft surprise. The words mattered (they always mattered), needling and comforting, teasing and soothing. The face like a sword, the hair like flame. By the time the rain let up, Aziraphale was soaked to his bones, and felt flayed open and needful. He left Crawly on the wall, pleading care for the exiled humans, and wandered into the desert, alone. When night fell, he made himself a little fire, and sat hugging his knees and thinking about God, and flaming swords, and apples, and apple-red lips. He stared at the fire, worrying his tongue between his teeth and twisting his fingers, and almost didn’t notice the lonely figure approaching out of the moonless shadows to the west.

Aziraphale knows that he didn’t Fall, not as Crowley did, and he never will. Nobody has, not since the first great War. He will never touch brimstone or smell the sulphur. Not for him the plummeting dive. His fall has been slow, a sticky slide, like honey; he dipped his finger in once, and he’s been dripping ever since. Further and further away from Heaven, soaking into the Earth drop by drop. So what’s eleven more years? A little bit more of him, melting away into the shifting sand. He’d rather pour it out on Crowley anyhow, even if only from a safe few feet away.

A few feet, he reminds himself, are easy to cross. He could cross them now, reach over with his hand. He leans a little, but hesitates. Be careful. Touch is a spider-silk web—false in its delicacy. The burning snare is the truth of it, a sticky, tangling ruination. Aziraphale remembers. Probably best not to risk it. But now Crowley is looking at him expectantly. Maybe he can allow himself, this once? It’s proper to shake on a momentous deal, and the end of the world certainly qualifies. He’s always found the strength to say no in the past. He can do it again if the touch should linger.

Wretched rationality. Aziraphale sets his jaw, presses his lips together, extends his hand. Crowley looks pleased, and takes it. He doesn’t look away, of course; he always watches intently, every time Aziraphale slips. His hand is cool, but Aziraphale’s is hot. Probably Crowley understands why. He smirks a little as he withdraws and says, “We’ll be godfathers, sort of. Overseeing his upbringing. We do it right, he won’t be evil. Or good, he’ll just—just be normal.”

“It might work,” Aziraphale says, suddenly cheerful. He feels giddy from the touch, and from getting out before it tangled him up. He can do this, take these little pleasures, in exchange for the one great ravening hunger he endures. It’s worth it to keep them both here, and safe, stretching out the years in stolen, golden moments; the slow, sweet drip of Aziraphale’s fall. 

“Godfathers,” he says, smiling. “Well I’ll be damned.”

**I loved you first, I loved you first**

Well, Crowley thinks, _ that _ only took six hours, and at least as many bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. But he knew that the angel would come around. He always has in the past, up to a point (not the point Crowley would like, but still). And a handshake to seal it! Crowley flexes his hand between his knees, curls his fingers into a fist and squeezes around the tingling. Maybe he should have held on longer? He saw the jump of the pulse in Aziraphale’s throat—Aziraphale’s hand was hot, and his cheeks were pink. Whatever else is going on behind those stormy eyes, the angel _ wants. _ He always has, but he won’t take it. _ Never again_, he had said, and he’s kept his word, no matter what Crowley has tried.

Better not press him. Crowley knows too well what happens when he does. A step too far, a linger too long, and it’s twenty, fifty, two hundred years of total radio silence. Crowley has learned, as the centuries have passed, how to keep the angel in his orbit. Offer him something he can rationalize—no reaching with hands, no confessions or pleading, and dark glasses to screen his choking, drowning eyes. It took a while to learn the way of it. The first time, Crowley lost a thousand years. These days, he rarely loses five.

“It’s not that bad when you get used to it,” he says. Aziraphale shoots him a look, but doesn’t comment. He hears the subtext, though; Crowley can tell. He’s learned not to say it out loud, but he learned slowly. Aziraphale knows. It’s never been a secret, not since the first time he said it.

Has the pain of it dulled? In some ways yes, in some ways no. You grow accustomed to the ache, the emptiness. And it’s not _ nothing _ to go to lunch, to watch Aziraphale taste and lick and swallow. It’s something to have an Arrangement, a permanent place in his life and work. (Crowley secretly loves doing the blessings when it’s his turn. He imagines how Aziraphale would do it, imagines himself in the angel’s skin. He always goes home quickly afterward, and falls to his knees on the floor, doubled over, gasping and pulling at himself, two fingers down his own throat.) It’s something brave and brazen to come to the rescue when Aziraphale gets into one of his little scrapes. The look exchanged, that says that the angel probably _ could _ have gotten out of it, but was waiting for him, expecting him—Crowley drinks it like a drug. It’s something to see that Aziraphale wants him, even though he never says it (or will say it).

But why did Crowley have to be the one to fall in love? The angel is strong and solid, he could have borne it. He could have absorbed the shock of love as easily as he seems to have deflected the wanting. But Crowley was brittle and twitchy from the start, and every gentle word from Aziraphale’s mouth is like a blow. He’s full of cracks now: _I’m very grateful, what about if I buy you lunch?—Let me tempt you (oh no, that’s your job, isn’t it?)—Be kind to each other—Would you mind terribly if I asked—I gave it away. _That was the worst one, that was the start of it all. _I gave it away_, he said, and Crowley gave it away in the very same heartbeat. He never got it back, either (being honest, he never really tried that hard).

But now the world is ending, and Crowley is ready to twitch right out of his skin. He’s always hoped that he’d wear Aziraphale down, eventually. But he’s out of time. He has eleven years, unless they find a way to borrow more. Now he’s here in the bookshop, Aziraphale’s little safe harbour, and he’s more fractured and miserable than ever. Perched on the sofa, lulled by the wine and clutter and lamplight, Crowley briefly forgot his own rules, and took off his sunglasses. He needs to put them back on now; he needs to hide. He’s sober, and Aziraphale has touched him. If he shakes apart now, eleven years will turn into eleven seconds, and he won’t see the angel again until it’s all over. Maybe he’ll see him in the final battle, radiant and righteous in an ecstasy of slaughter. Maybe Aziraphale would do him mercy, look him in the eyes as he smote with fire and ground him under the wheel of his chariot. 

Crowley reaches for his shades. But—would putting them on signal that he’s ready to leave? He doesn’t want to leave, it’s cold and hungry outside. His empty bed and the empty ache inside him are all that waits out there. Let him stay a little longer. He can make jokes, they can drink more now that they’ve decided. Just keep your eyes on the floor, he thinks, and withdraws his empty hand from his jacket.

“Everything alright?” Aziraphale asks.

“You mean besides the imminent Apocalypse?” Crowley trains his eye on a raised-cord binding. “Fine, lovely. Top of the world, for the few more years that there _ is _ one. What would you say to one more drink? Got anything stronger amid the contraband?” 

“It’s going to work, Crowley.”

He doesn’t look up, that would be beyond foolish. He can feel his lips twisting against the rising bile in his throat. He doesn’t look up until he hears Aziraphale sigh and get up to walk to the back of the shop. When it’s safe, Crowley follows with devouring eyes—takes what his eyes can hold of the angel’s shoulders, his powerful legs; the sturdy arms, and hands to bruise and break him, split him open like a pomegranate, fuck him with one finger until he comes, cock untouched (and later to twist and twine in Crowley’s hair). There won’t be time for that now—no chance for a second chance unless they stop it. They won’t, though, Crowley knows it. This stupid plan is not going to work. It’s just a way to steal the last few years, to wait out the end as close as he can get to Aziraphale.

Crowley looks away again when the angel returns with whisky and glasses. He takes what he’s given and drinks it down. Aziraphale offers another pour, and he probably shouldn’t, but he takes that too. He’ll always follow where Aziraphale leads—into a church, into a prison, into the desert east of Eden. He remembers watching from the high wall as the angel staggered away, looking lost. Didn’t even go the same direction as the humans he had claimed to be worried about. Crowley waited until he was almost out of sight, not really arguing with himself about whether to follow. Maybe he could have argued, before he had felt the white wing lifted over him. But once that was done, Aziraphale was set like the seal upon his heart. As stern as death, and Crowley knew that death was what awaited him. He belonged to no one but Aziraphale now, and he would die for it, one way or another. Either Hell would find out, or Aziraphale would, and he knew at whose hands he’d rather die. He dropped from the wall into the soft sand as twilight began to gather, and followed the angel’s footprints into the desert.

Aziraphale is looking at him; Crowley can feel the prickle on the side of his neck. Maybe he should say something, but he doesn’t want to accidentally disinvite himself. If the angel wants him to leave tonight, he’ll just have to say so. Crowley keeps his nose buried in the glass of whisky.

In the end, it is Aziraphale who speaks. “Crowley,” he says, “do you remember the first time we saw Hamlet?”


	2. Andante

**Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth  
** **I have to go, I have to go**

The words always mattered, but it wasn’t until a meeting at the Globe that Aziraphale started to consider collecting them. Oh, he had his little volumes of prophecy before, his few early Bibles and scriptures, but these he kept mostly for his own pleasure. He liked to listen to the long cosmic game of ‘telephone’, to find what had been hopelessly muddled (a comfort) and what had been almost miraculously well-preserved (a sweet, wistful sting that he could not name). And above all he liked—or rather, didn’t like, but itched, _ needed_, was mercilessly driven—to read over and over the same few lines, letting his chest hollow out and his hands feather up and down his thighs in the pitiless, sleepless hours:

_ Now the serpent was more crafty than any beast of the field that the Lord God had made. _ Aziraphale would read it and think of the wall, of Crawly’s voice, mild like honey, his mild, soft manners, his hypnotic eyes. How, as the first rain began, he drew close to Aziraphale with faltering steps, all-ingenuous, as though he had no inkling of Aziraphale’s distress, or that his nearness amplified all of Aziraphale’s doubts, that it carved into him like a knife, and that all Aziraphale could do was extend his wing and raise his eyes to a silent Heaven, and suffer.

_ His tail swept a third of the stars from the sky, tossing them to the earth. _ Aziraphale would think of a curtain of wine-dark curls around his face, sliding over his cheek, his ear; and of the tilting firmament behind the veil—how the stars were too many, and moved too fast—and his feathering hands would feather upward. He would brush a palm against himself, hesitant, as though he imagined he might stop this time. He never stopped. He wasn’t able to, any more than he’d been able to be sexless since meeting Crawly.

_ ‘Because you have done this, cursed are you above all livestock and every beast of the field. On your belly will you go, and dust you will eat, all the days of your life.’ _ He would read it and take himself in hand with a shudder, and his mind’s self would take Crawly strongly in hand, reaching around from behind him as they knelt on the ground. In his vision, his fingers would snarl in Crawly’s hair, tug his head back and grind his face into the sand. And Crawly would beg and whine, his hands scrabbling useless in the sliding earth. How different Aziraphale’s vision from the one time, the way it had actually happened—but telling the story like this, less sweet, made the hurt less sour, in the end.

_ Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven with the key to the Abyss, holding in his hand a great chain. He seized the dragon, the ancient serpent, and bound him for a thousand years. And he threw him into the Abyss, shut it, and sealed it over him. _His mind’s self was powerful, a true Angel, not this quivering wreck of a thing; he would show it to Crawly, again and again in lonely dark rooms through the centuries, reading the words and imagining himself. How he would drive into Crawly like a spear, stabbing to the guts, forcing him down on his belly in the dirt. And how Crawly would cry out, rough and weeping, and spill himself in Aziraphale’s hand; and Aziraphale in his cold room would spill himself on his stomach and clench his teeth. For well more than a mere thousand years he sealed the demon away like that, chained and conquered in his imagination, the only place Aziraphale could conquer him. 

Thus with his few books Aziraphale had sometimes retreated in shame from his own weakness, which was not Crowley, but which Crowley made manifest. It was the meeting at the Globe, though, that turned Aziraphale into a collector of the written word. _ Alright, I’ll do that one. My treat_, Crowley said, and suddenly something was different. His treat—a favour, a gift to Aziraphale. Not asking him for anything this time, but giving without being asked out loud, expecting nothing in return. Aziraphale felt a new warmth flood him then, swelling his heart and filling his cock, but without bringing with it the urge to bind and banish. It was a more dangerous feeling than any he had felt so far, and he was relieved and bereft alike when Crowley strolled heedlessly out of the theatre.

Though he turned back to the play and his grapes, Aziraphale paid them no more attention. He felt his foundations groan and shift. He had worried about Crowley’s safety for centuries, and had tried to stay away for that reason as much as for fear of himself and his shame; though Crowley always followed him anyway (and Aziraphale always let him). But suddenly, Aziraphale’s worry was no longer about guilt at the consequences, if Crowley’s obsession with him should ever be discovered. Suddenly it was a fear of loss. Suddenly it seemed to him that the whole world was a jewel, and Crowley the fiery light at its center—and everything beautiful would crumble into dust if Hell should snuff the light out.

Aziraphale wondered briefly how things could have changed so abruptly, but the clarity of hindsight soon supplied the answer—they had not changed abruptly at all. The change had been slow and steady, and of Crowley’s making. He’d been working on Aziraphale all this time, altering their relationship. The years between their meetings had gradually dwindled as the character of Crowley’s interactions with him had changed. What began after the Flood as _ angel, don’t leave this time, please, you can have anything, _ became in Rome _ I promise I won’t ask again, let’s just be friends_, and then finally nothing more than _ we’d cancel each other out. _

Slower and slower, but closer together, until they were walking side by side through the years. Aziraphale never lost the feeling of being hunted, but somehow he had grown comfortable with it. It was almost a dance, rather than a chase—his slipping and struggling slowed to a gentle slide. He didn't even really know what Crowley was hunting anymore. It might be nothing other than to prove his point, to watch Aziraphale doubt and question what he had been so sure of on the wall at Eden.

As Crowley's pursuit of him had gentled into friendship, Aziraphale’s fantasies had gradually gentled, too—by the time the Arrangement was several centuries in place, they were almost tender. What he felt at the Globe was not tender, though. It was a profound and piercing thrill of the heart. It was as violent as his want, and just as hungry, but now the ache became ambrosial, filling up the cavern of his soul like frankincense. 

When Aziraphale returned from Edinburgh to find Hamlet the talk of the city, he knew that Crowley had kept his word, and he knew that he _ must _ have a copy of the play. He had never been one to keep tokens before (except for the one exception—his eternal exception). But now he knew that he would lose Crowley one day (to the wrath of Hell or the Wrath of God, it made no difference), and he became consumed with the need to keep every piece he could of the world they witnessed together. He collected every story that struck his heart or reminded him of a time or place or event in their experience. Eventually he opened a bookshop to hold it all (though it would be generous to call it a shop, as Aziraphale would go to every trouble to avoid actually selling his treasures). He came to live his life by the need to keep Crowley safe and on Earth for as long as possible, and he hoarded stories on paper knowing that they would be all he had left when Crowley had gone. That moment at the Globe he became Horatio. Every time Crowley departed then, Aziraphale felt it like poison in his veins, and every time Crowley said _ ‘night, angel, take it easy, _ or _ see you in a few years, angel, _ Aziraphale would fly to his books with the same words echoing in his ears:

_If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart_  
_ Absent thee from felicity awhile,_  
_ And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,  
To tell my story._

And Aziraphale would do so, but he never told Crowley. He wondered sometimes if Crowley knew. The favours and rescues continued through the years, often through Aziraphale’s contrivance when Crowley took too long to come around. And the look Crowley gave him when he handed over a satchel of prized volumes in a ruined church suggested that he understood their significance. Aziraphale lingered on the brush of their hands that night, and stared after Crowley practically choking with longing. His own sweet prince. 

Now they sit in the bookshop together, in the shadow of Armageddon, staring across the gulf between the sofa and Aziraphale’s wingback chair. Planning the future of the newborn Antichrist, waiting for the end of the world. Surrounded by centuries of Aziraphale’s treasured pain—the mountains of paper in which he buried his frustrated craving—a shop full of unsent love letters.

“Do you remember the first time we saw Hamlet?” Aziraphale asks.

“You mean Burbage?” Crowley remembers. “He was alright.”

“You seemed to think more highly of him at the time. Unless my memory fails me, you said something like, _ age does not wither nor custom stale_?” Aziraphale is trying to tease, but the joke does not land. Probably Crowley can hear the sick drawl of his envy. Aziraphale, hypocrite that he is, could never much stand Crowley admiring anyone else. He wonders if the demon even wants him in the same way anymore. Crowley hasn’t spoken of love or desire in years. These days he hesitates to use the word friend. It’s possible he just follows Aziraphale out of habit, now, playing out a dead story as Aziraphale holds on to all his paper ghosts. Careful and burrowing and slow and blind, that’s what they’ve become. Fear turns us all into crawling vermin, in the end.

Crowley won’t look at him. He hasn’t for several minutes now. Soon he will leave, and Aziraphale will sit here alone among the books. Soon he will die, unless they stop it, and Aziraphale will shrivel into a husk and drift like old paper across the cool and pointless expanse of Heaven, forever. Aziraphale remembers the cool expanse of the dawn-light desert east of Eden. He drifted across it like a ghost that morning, pointless as paper, clutching the folded-up scrap of fabric torn from his robes, not looking back. He refused to look back and see Crawly reaching after him, crumpled into a black and red stain on the sand, next to the black and red scar of the dying fire.

“You know I wasn’t talking about Burbage,” Crowley says, without looking up.

Aziraphale stares, whisky paused at his lips, and feels fire start to creep slowly through his limbs.

**Beneath the stars came falling on our heads  
** **But they're just old light, they're just old light**

He shouldn’t have said that. Crowley feels sick, he’s going to be sick. Why did he have to open his useless mouth? He knows not to talk about it. Every time he does, Aziraphale retreats. What did he think would happen this time? That Aziraphale would smile, say _ what a lovely compliment, dear boy, come sit on my lap and let me fuck you until you black out, by way of appreciation_? Idiot. He can’t afford to drive the angel off now, there isn’t _ time_. 

Maybe if he blows by it fast enough, it won’t do much damage. The whisky is hot in his throat, and Crowley swallows around his galloping pulse. “What got you thinking about Hamlet, anyway?” he asks quickly, casually. Easy does it.

A brief pause, but then, “I was just thinking of—well, many things. I was thinking of the ghost, I suppose.”

At least he answered. Crowley wonders how many years he’ll lose for that Burbage comment. Maybe only four or five, if the angel really believes the plan can work. It’ll be about five years before the Antichrist is ready for any influence. That leaves six. The tail end of things, at least, Crowley will probably be able to keep. Maybe more, if he can keep to his rules. Don’t look up. Just talk about the ghost. “That so?” he asks. “Remnants of the dead, is it? Or portents of doom?”

“Is there really a difference?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley thinks about it. Maybe not much of a difference, after all. The stars are portents, and all the stars are ghosts. The Morningstar was Crowley’s herald of doom, and he left his remnant in Crowley’s dead yellow eyes. And ever since Eden, Crowley follows another star—follows the sign to his death and the doom of all things—chasing the light of a fire already burned out.

It had burned out at dawn when Aziraphale walked away. Crowley remembers crouching beside the black embers in the blue morning, cold and impotent in the wide desert. The angel’s retreating footprints were the only other break in the blankness, but he was forbidden to follow them. Crowley’s robes and hair were mangled, his face streaked, and he stared emptily at the white figure shrinking into the distant white sands.

_ This can’t happen again, Crawly_, Aziraphale had said. _ Never again. It oughtn’t to have happened even once. _

_ Don’t say that_, he had coaxed, trying to swallow his desperate panic. _ It was good, you know it was, and it’ll only get better. Let me show you. Stay with me, and I’ll show you. _

_ No, that’s not the point. We’re on opposite sides of a war! _

_ Oh, no one’s gonna care about the Earth now the humans have cocked themselves up. We can stay here together, we can have this here. _

_ Don’t be ridiculous, our offices aren’t just going to forget about us. You’ll get into trouble, and so will I. _

_ I don’t care about trouble. Please, stay with me, angel. Let me love you here—I will, you know. I’ll take good care of you, get you anything you want. _

_ Stop it, Crawly. It’s not just a slap on the wrist, you know. Hell would kill you if they heard you talking like that! _

_ So what if they do? I’m damned anyway, there’s no happy ending for me. But there could be a nice in-between part. Come on, stay with me, please? You can touch me as much as you like. _

_ No! I won’t be responsible for your destruction, how dare you ask it of me? _

_ But I love you, it’s worth it. _

_ It is not, and you do not! You wicked creature, trying to tempt an angel with lies like that—well it won’t work! _

_ You know I’m not lying! Just— _

_ Enough of this! You’ve had your little game, I’m leaving. And don’t you follow! If you follow me, I’ll...I’ll be forced to smite you. _

_ Then smite me! D’you think I wouldn’t rather have you smite me if I won’t ever have this again? Go ahead, you filthy, righteous bastard! Do it now, if you’re going to leave me here! _

Aziraphale had turned away, shaking with anger and clenching the scrap of fabric in his fist. He began to march slowly eastward, and Crowley screamed and hurled curses at him. But the angel never looked back, and as dawn was breaking Crowley collapsed next to the dead fire, defeated. He couldn’t even beat his fists on the earth; they just sank into the sand, soft and heavy, _ don’t go, please, I love you_, wavering uselessly in the empty air.

The next time he saw Aziraphale was a thousand years later, during the Flood. This time, no wing was lifted over him when the rain began to fall. But a silent apology passed between them as they stood pondering the drowning wrath of God, and Aziraphale let him follow to a little cave at the top of a high mountain, where they sat once more before a fire at night. It would’ve been alright, if Crowley hadn’t tried to touch him. Aziraphale had a few pomegranates with him, and some flat white bread. Crowley watched, transfixed, as he broke one of the fruits apart with his hands, fingers digging to split the tough rind, and offered Crowley half. 

Crowley refused. He never ate. _ I told you_, he said, _ I won’t have anything in my mouth but you. _

Aziraphale blushed and looked away. Crowley should have noticed the anger, but he hadn’t yet learned not to press his luck. He reached out a hand to pet the strong arm next to him, and Aziraphale drew back sharply, his eyes flashing. He stayed on the other side of the cave for the next forty days, and wouldn’t let Crowley approach him. He talked relentlessly of trivial things like beer in Sumeria and the smelting of copper and tin. When the rain stopped, Aziraphale went to leave, muttering about a dove. 

_ Wait, don’t go yet, _ Crowley said, wrung out and heartsick. _ You didn’t really think I was lying back then, did you? _

_ I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, _ Aziraphale tutted, fidgeting dangerously, _ but it’s all in the past now. Bygones and all that. _

_ No it’s not, you know I still love you. Look, I kept it braided. _Crowley turned his head to the side.

Aziraphale looked affronted, as though Crowley had said something deeply uncouth. _ I really must be going, dear fellow. _ His voice was cold. _ Mind your way down, it’s a treacherous path. _

Crowley begged him to stay, tried to make him understand, but Aziraphale brushed his pleas away like flies.

_I left you some bread and a pomegranate,_ he said, fixing Crowley with a pointed look. _You should_ _eat._ And he climbed out of the mouth of the cave, and was gone.

Crowley never touched the bread or the fruit. He didn’t eat the oysters in Rome, though he had learned to drink by then. He didn’t eat boar at the tables of kings, or spiced plums with rich Italian merchants. He never ate. He refused to do as Aziraphale had told him, because Aziraphale had told him to give up. 

Instead, Crowley gradually trained himself to follow Aziraphale’s reactions. He learned what set the angel at his ease, what not to say, how not to act. Like working bronze, he slowly hammered their want, their hurt, his sorry love, Aziraphale’s guilt, into a tentative truce—and then into an Arrangement, and then a friendship. He learned a little self-respect in the process, and tried to give as good as he got, when he caught the angel fumbling or doubting or wanting him. 

He wondered sometimes if he wasn’t chasing a ghost—if his star wasn’t already as dead as the stars that had hung low over their heads like a bower that night in the desert. He decided it didn’t matter, he would chase it anyway. Remnants or not, the stars were bright and beautiful. You didn’t have to raise your eyes, could spare yourself the sight of the fall of light long gone, but what would it gain you? The only other place to look was down.

Crowley did eat, once. After one of his earlier rescues (one of his best). He had snuck into the prison cell and draped himself insouciantly on a ledge while the angel’s back was turned, confident that he’d have a chance to gloat. But when he spoke, the way Aziraphale breathed his name nearly had Crowley come in his trousers. Encouraged by the welcome, he said all the right things, baldly refused Aziraphale’s thanks, and won himself an invitation to lunch. After they had sat for a while talking of revolutions and bloodshed and human efficiency, Aziraphale reached across the table with a forkful of crêpes sucrées. _ My dear, you must try this, you’ll see what I mean_.

Crowley wasn’t remotely interested in the food, but he was pinned by Aziraphale’s sudden searching gaze. He didn’t know to what purpose, but he felt that the angel was testing him. He thought he should do what Aziraphale wanted. Gingerly, he leaned over and opened his mouth, and Aziraphale fed him. Crowley didn’t know what to make of the taste. It wasn’t warming like wine or hardy like ale or bitter like coffee. And it was nothing like Aziraphale. It was delicate and sweet, and Crowley did not like it. And he wasn’t sure that he liked what he saw on the angel’s face as he chewed and swallowed. There was arousal, and a kind of satisfaction, but Crowley thought he saw some thread of pain—maybe disappointment? Had Aziraphale hoped he would refuse? Crowley felt a little sick and hollow, as though he had broken a vow. He never tried it again, and Aziraphale stopped pressing him to eat after that.

“I just mean,” Aziraphale murmurs, staring into his glass of whisky, “that a dead thing that moves as if it were alive can hardly be other than a portent of doom. But, well, is that really what the ghost is? That is, he says that he walks the Earth as a purgatory, until he atones for his crimes. That’s a look to a definite future.”

“Yeah...I suppose,” says Crowley, careful.

“Well, what I mean is,” Aziraphale continues (is he flustered?), “it doesn’t seem to me that he’s actually—or, that is, are you...sure that it’s really...dead?”


	3. Animando

**Your hair was long when we first met**

He must be the worst angel in creation. Lying to God like the cringing humans, babbling with nerves, caught out. She had withdrawn into deafening silence before he’d even stopped gibbering. Crawly must have been sent to him as punishment, there was no other explanation. Everything about him was gentle and delicate and beautiful, and Aziraphale had thoroughly suffered. He had withstood the ravages of Crawly’s amicable questions and easy doubts and the charm of his presence as long as he could, but had fled as soon as a break in the rain had offered a justifiable escape. Now here he sits, stewing in his cowardice, a pitiful excuse for a soldier of Heaven—unable either to meet the demands of his office or to accept the consequences of his failure. 

The fire is a small comfort. A tiny, defiant feeling within him is glad that he gave his sword to the humans, glad that they will have a similar comfort tonight. They have each other for company as well. Aziraphale sighs and rests his chin on his drawn-up knees. He would welcome a kind face. He certainly shan’t return to Heaven until he’s called. He wonders where Crawly will rest his head. Probably in the soft grass of the Garden, curled up under a tree, shadowed with leaves and flowers, curls spreading in tendrils under his neck and shoulders. He seems as though he would belong there, somehow. 

Looking unconsciously in that direction, Aziraphale notices a ripple of movement, and a flicker of yellow among the dark dunes. It can’t be Adam and Eve, they headed further east, not west. Surely it couldn’t be—he peers into the gloom, until Crawly’s approaching form is unmistakable. Perfect. Aziraphale should have known that he would not so easily escape his punishment. He sits up straighter as Crawly comes to stand a few feet away from the fire, and he opens his mouth, bitterness on his tongue, ready to say something cold and dismissive.

But he stops when he meets the demon’s eyes. There is nothing in them of the wry placidity he had shown on the wall—no smirking, no nettling. Crawly says nothing, but his eyes are serious, imploring. He looks as lost and afflicted as Aziraphale feels. Aziraphale finds that he cannot be cold with him. The bitterness slides back down his throat to stick in a painful tightness, and no words come to him. He shuts his mouth and turns back to the fire. 

After a moment, Crawly settles onto the ground next to him, folding his legs up crossed under his robe. He is very close; their shoulders and thighs are almost brushing. It is an intrusion, but Aziraphale, in his untethered disposition, welcomes it. He feels not the pursuit of an enemy, but the commiseration of a fellow victim. They are wounded together, Aziraphale senses, though he does not understand the why or how.

“You were upset,” Crawly says after a few beats.

“Have you come to mock me?” Aziraphale asks.

“No.” His voice sounds strained, too much so for insincerity. “Didn’t like it there, alone. Too empty.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs. “The place was made for them, I suppose it must feel strange without them in it.”

“Mind if I stay?” Crawly asks quietly.

Aziraphale cannot answer aloud. He fears Crawly, fears the way he feels. But now that Crawly is here, Aziraphale would give anything to keep him from leaving. He looks over. Crawly is staring resolutely up at the stars, and will not meet Aziraphale’s gaze. Aziraphale studies the cut of his profile, thrown into sharp relief by the fire. He follows the line of his jaw to his throat, and Aziraphale’s fingers twitch as his eyes linger on the deep curls tumbling over Crawly’s neck. Aziraphale cannot speak, but he lowers his head in silent permission. Crawly says nothing either, but leans slightly toward him until his arm touches Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale stays as still as he can, but he feels as though the ground is rocking underneath him. His earthly body has never been touched. The brush of their shoulders is feather-light, but an aching tautness is spreading through his limbs and stomach from the point of contact. He needs. He is not ignorant of what he needs. Aziraphale has seen the humans at their sport, and it was mere minutes that he looked at Crawly before he understood the nature of it. His cock grew full and heavy then, and has plagued him since they stood together in the rain. He wants to touch it now, wants to touch Crawly with it, and quails at the blunt shame of what he has become unbidden. He must be the worst angel in creation. But he needs to touch something, or he will surely go mad.

Perhaps an innocent touch will dull the ache, he reasons with himself. Perhaps some kindly gesture, a comfort to Crawly in his loneliness. It was Crawly who sought the contact, after all. And so far he has shown no awareness of the effect he has on Aziraphale. Probably he has his own corporation better in hand than Aziraphale does, and isn’t troubled by such things. Aziraphale knows what he’d like to touch, if that’s to be the way. Dare he ask? No, he couldn’t, it would be too forward. They hardly know each other. But then Crawly leans in a little closer, and sighs; Aziraphale catches a woodfire scent (that has nothing to do with the miraculously conjured flames in front of them), and is overcome.

“Ehm,” he starts, and Crawly sits up and looks at him. He already feels a fool. “If you’d like, I could—well, ah...no, never mind, sorry.”

“What?” asks Crawly.

“No, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale fumbles. “It’s just been a difficult day, and I...really, never mind.”

“Did you want something?” Crawly is looking at him with that same serious, searching look. “You can ask, you know. I’ll say yes, whatever it is.”

“Is that a temptation?” asks Aziraphale sharply, but Crawly shakes his head.

“Just an offer,” he says. “To pay you back for before. For the wing.”

Ah, well that seems rational enough, thinks Aziraphale. A demon probably wouldn’t want to feel indebted to an angel. Crawly is offering—he touched first, asked if he could stay, said that he felt alone. And Aziraphale wants so very badly. The firelight is warm, and it pushes back just enough of the cold and darkness that it feels as though the two of them are tucked into a private pocket of the world—as though there is nothing outside the ring of light, and inside it they are safe, and screened.

“Well, in that case—” Aziraphale’s voice is a little shaky. “Would you mind terribly if I asked...to touch your hair?”

Crawly blows out a little breath of surprise, and turns his head to the side, inviting. Aziraphale reaches tentatively, and whispers over the curls with one hand. Crawly smiles. Encouraged, Aziraphale threads his fingers in, combs through, gently smoothing and separating. Crawly’s hair is silky and warm, so soft that it almost feels insubstantial, so soft that the touch is not enough, and Aziraphale almost cries for more. He combs his fingers through again, more firmly this time, closing his fist around a coil. Crawly’s eyes flutter shut, and he sighs, and resists the pull ever so slightly. 

Aziraphale is in agony. This was a mistake, no relief for him lies this way. All his body throbs in time with his pulse, and his cock is already wet and desperate. Stop it, Aziraphale thinks. Do something different, before you lose control of yourself. He raises his other hand, takes a section of hair, separates it into three, and begins to braid. _ Concentrate. _ Crawly moans soft in the back of his throat as Aziraphale’s fingers pull and twist and smooth. 

Somehow he makes it through. When the plaiting is done, Aziraphale asks in a quivering murmur, “Do you have something I can tie it up with?”

Crawly takes the hem of his robe and lifts it. Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry as sand, but Crawly only pulls a single black thread from the frayed hem, and hands it to Aziraphale without looking over. Aziraphale takes the thread, mindful to avoid the touch of Crawly’s hand, and ties off the end of the plait.

Crawly reaches up with deft fingers and feels over Aziraphale’s handiwork. “Thank you,” he says with a touch of irony. “Do go on, if you like.”

Aziraphale swallows and resumes his careful combing through Crawly’s hair. Red curls are spilling between his fingers, slithering over his wrist. His will is unraveling. He pushes his fingers further in, lightly raking his nails over the scalp. Crawly groans, and leans into his touch, and his head is tugged backward as Aziraphale pulls against a snag. Aziraphale inhales sharply, quaking with the effort of not lunging forward to clamp his mouth over Crawly’s throat. He drags over the scalp again with his nails, harder, and notices that Crawly’s breath is coming as harsh and uneven as his own. Aziraphale clenches his fist in the hair behind Crawly's ear; his cock throbs at the stricken noise Crawly makes. He cannot stop himself, and turns Crawly’s face toward him so that he can reach to touch the hair on the other side. Another mistake. Their eyes meet, and Crawly’s expression is a silent, frantic entreaty—eyes wide, lips parted, a mirror of Aziraphale’s hunger and lust.

He could not stop now if God Herself commanded it. Aziraphale raises his other trembling hand and twines it into the spider-silk curls. Crawly is leaning forward, staring ravenous at Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale tightens his grip in the hair on either side of Crawly’s face. He pushes, but cannot push away; he hasn’t the will—he is caught, entangled. And Crawly closes the distance and kisses his lips slow and sweet. It isn’t a vertical headlong dive; it isn’t a sudden rush. It’s thick and languid, like the dripping of a honey-dipped finger, like warm honey poured on his tongue.

Crawly lays him down on the sand, his hands cradling Aziraphale’s shoulders, his curls whispering over Aziraphale’s face. His lips slide wanton over Aziraphale’s, and his tongue dips again and again into his mouth, pressing and pulling his lust from him. His hair is ruddy and shining in the firelight, and behind it the stars are so low and thick and swirling that the sky almost looks milky with them. Crawly’s body weighs him down, and Aziraphale can feel the hard press of his cock; he tries to move against it, but has no leverage in the sand.

He feels Crawly’s hands gliding down the sides of his body, fingertips skating over his chest, his thighs. Aziraphale squirms and whimpers, trapped; his cock is leaking, he can feel the drip of it down himself. Crawly must sense his condition, perhaps takes pity, for he pulls away from their kiss and lifts Aziraphale’s robe. Glancing up once, he slides down Aziraphale’s body, lowers his head (Aziraphale’s hands are still tangled in the hair behind his ears), and lays a slow and forceful kiss at the base of Aziraphale’s cock.

The relief of being touched is almost too much for Aziraphale. When Crawly starts to lick and suck him, all Aziraphale wants is to force his head down and fuck up into his mouth unbridled. But Aziraphale’s legs are pinned under Crawly’s body, and his arms and hands are trembling so violently that he can do nothing but barely hang on, need and heat rolling through him at Crawly’s mercy. He will not last; he feels the tide and pressure rising, driving him up and over.

“Oh please, please, I can’t stop,” Aziraphale cries. “I’m going to—going to—”

Crawly pushes down and swallows him deep, sucking around him, and Aziraphale comes long and shuddering, only half-aware that he is whining, high-pitched, pitiful. Crawly is gentle through the aftershocks, and pets Aziraphale’s thighs as he comes down. Aziraphale’s fists have been clenched all this time in Crawly’s hair, and now it is damp with sweat, and snarled, and Aziraphale’s fingers are cramped and hot. He untangles them, and stammers an apology.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I—”

But Crawly cuts him off. “I wanted it,” he says. “I’d have it every day. I don’t want anything else in my mouth but you.” He is looking at Aziraphale, open and almost fearful. 

Aziraphale, drifting in the heavy flow of bliss and relief, has neither the wits nor the strength to examine the yearning that takes him then. He knows only that he has not had enough for tonight (he ignores the small voice warning him that he may never have enough). He takes Crawly’s face between his hands, tender, and pulls him forward.

“Come here,” he says, a soft command.

—

Aziraphale is burning. Crowley just said—well, he implied—at least, maybe he hasn’t given up. _ You know I wasn’t talking about Burbage_, he said. His tone implied a confession; if so, then Crowley wanted him still at the Globe—long after Aziraphale had become convinced that his interest had faded completely. And to say it now—it’s possible that Crowley wants him still. Aziraphale has been a mighty fool. What if he’s been pouring himself out drop by drop in a slow decline, while Crowley has been waiting to catch him all this time? Why couldn’t he have just _ asked_? He ought to have asked centuries ago, he ought to have risked it. Maybe nothing would have come of it, maybe they would have had to evade Heaven and Hell somewhat more attentively than they currently do, but wouldn’t it have been worth it? He would have known then, if nothing else, whether Crowley still—the way Aziraphale does—if he ever—

“You’re asking if the ghost is dead?” Crowley’s brave attempt at sarcasm barely masks the waver in his voice (Aziraphale feels a flare of hope in his chest). “Alright, I see what you mean, I guess, immortal soul and that…it’s not like a dead tree or a dead star that’s just gone when it goes.” 

“Yes, exactly,” says Aziraphale eagerly. He is going to confess himself now, whether or not he is about to be very justly rejected. The clock has run out on his cowardice. Crowley continues to stare at the books. “It’s not gone, just waiting—waiting to be reanimated, as it—Crowley, will you please look at me?”

Crowley winces and slowly looks up. There is a distant anguish in his eyes, that he must have been trying to hide from Aziraphale. But it only hardens Aziraphale’s resolve. If they’re going to risk their lives to save the world, Crowley deserves to know the real reason why. The trumpet has sounded now. It’s time to raise the ghost. 

“His crimes keep him bound until their atonement, but he hasn’t only been waiting,” Aziraphale says. “He’s been waiting and suffering. He’s been tortured beyond the telling of it. Do you remember what he says to Hamlet about his purgatory?”

Aziraphale sets down his glass and stands, and Crowley’s haunted eyes widen.

**Samson came to my bed, told me that my hair was red  
** **Told me I was beautiful, and came into my bed**

Crowley swallows. Aziraphale is moving toward him, a bright intensity in his eyes. His star. Crowley would give anything for it to be alive, anything for Aziraphale to say what Crowley thinks he’s saying. He is paralyzed with hope.

“Um, remind me,” Crowley manages, as Aziraphale comes to stand over him, looking down.

Aziraphale crooks one finger under Crowley’s chin, and tilts his head up. “He says, _ I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood_,”—he brushes a thumb over Crowley’s brow and temple—“_make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres_,”—his fingers slide into Crowley’s hair—“_thy knotted and combinèd locks to part._”

Crowley looks up at him, drawing painful breaths, racked by his hope, unable to hide it. Aziraphale bends low over him, fingers twining in Crowley’s hair, and hovers over Crowley’s lips.

“May I tell you?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley nods silently, drowning, and Aziraphale lowers his mouth to kiss.

—

“Come here.” Aziraphale sits up and pulls Crawly gently into his lap, cupping his face with two strong hands. Crawly longs, and loves, and wants, and cannot believe that he has been allowed to do what he just did. 

“You’ve been very kind to me,” says Aziraphale, wondering, and Crawly shivers as though the word had touched his skin. “You didn’t have to…”

Crawly doesn’t know what to say. He looks at the angel, begging with his eyes. Aziraphale lowers his hands from his face and circles one powerful arm around Crawly’s waist, to balance him. With the other he reaches between them, pushes up Crawly’s robe. His fingers close tight around Crawly’s cock like iron, but Aziraphale is not rough with him. He is slow and careful, searching Crawly’s face for a reaction. Crawly gives himself over, wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and kisses his lips—not even trying to rut into his hand, despite his want—wanting only to let himself be touched and taken apart.

Aziraphale shifts Crawly closer on his lap, and Crawly can feel that the angel is hard again. The hand on his cock moves lower, cupping him, reaching further, curling in with one finger, pressing, spreading, then another. Crawly cries out and drops his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, clutching his robes, buries his face in his neck. He lets Aziraphale’s fingers fuck him, lets his arm support him. He would stay encircled like this forever, chained up in the angel’s arms and hands. He draws his lips and tongue over Aziraphale’s neck, tasting the sweat, and Aziraphale shudders and squeezes him closer.

After a while (how long?—he has no more sense of the passage of time) Aziraphale leans Crawly back to look at him. “You are—your hair is very beautiful,” he says with a strange expression. “I’m sorry I mussed it.”

Crawly shakes his head bemusedly, drunk with lust and the angel’s touch. “It’s for you,” he says. “You can do what you want.”

“What I want…” Aziraphale echoes softly. “May I—that is...” He withdraws his hand, grasps Crawly by the hips, and draws him flush to his cock with an inquisitive look. His eyes are dark and his voice is low. Crawly smiles at the curious hesitation. Is it possible that the angel still doesn’t understand him? He lifts himself on his knees and sinks down onto Aziraphale, guiding the angel’s cock with his hand.

“Oh—oh—are you sure it’s alright?” Aziraphale gasps; but Crawly is already moving, floating in light. He does not even fully hear the question, suspended as he is between Heaven and Earth, the highest he has risen since he Fell. This is what he has wanted from the moment they met. He can feel the strength of the angel inside of him, feels protected and wanted and had. Aziraphale’s arm circles back around his waist, and Crawly leans backward into it, trusting the sinew to hold him up. Aziraphale’s hand returns to his cock, exploring, touching and stroking it, and he stares at Crawly as though at a beautiful thing.

Aziraphale fucks him long and steady—they are panting, fevered, but moving slow. The whole world seems to have slowed to a creep—the air is quiet except for their quiet moans, the stars drift like silt, and even the fire seems to sway languorously with them. Crawly wants it never to end; but now Aziraphale has found a rhythm, stroking Crawly in time with his thrusts. He is pushing Crawly upward, into thin air and too much light. Crawly is rocking dangerously near the peak, ready to plummet, and every roll of Aziraphale’s hips lifts him closer to the final height. 

“Angel, please,” Crawly says, and his voice is rough. “_Please._”

“Please what?” Aziraphale breathes. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Crawly whispers, feeling broken. “Just keep me, please, you have to, I’m going to fall.”

“Oh, I’ve got you,” says Aziraphale, and tightens his arm around Crawly. “I’ve got you, don’t worry, I’ll hold you up. Come for me now, you can, it’s alright.”

Aziraphale strokes him two more times, and Crawly begins to shake and cry. He clutches Aziraphale to him, head thrown back, and pleads with the stars as he spills on Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale joins him quickly, shouting and driving into him, holding him tight as a vise in the strength of his arm. 

The tremors subside eventually, and their breathing gradually calms. Aziraphale eases Crawly off of him, and lays them down by the fire; he lets Crawly curl around him and nestle his head on his shoulder. Crawly is afraid to look at him, afraid the angel will sober and push him away. But Aziraphale’s hands drift back to his hair, and after a minute of combing, he begins another braid. Crawly falls asleep to the soothing pull and play of Aziraphale’s fingers.

—

Stunned and hopeful and helpless, Crowley stays perfectly still and receives Aziraphale’s kiss. He couldn’t do anything else if his life depended on it. He is afraid to move, doesn’t want to shatter the moment. He drinks in the details—the warmth, the breath, the pressure—loses himself for a while in the touch he thought he would never know again. How can this be happening? What is happening? Aziraphale sinks onto the sofa next to him, kissing his lips with brief, light kisses all the time. When Crowley doesn’t try to deepen the kiss, Aziraphale becomes more urgent, runs his free hand up Crowley’s arm to his neck, tightens his hold in Crowley’s hair. 

How will he survive this? He is going to be torn down the middle in two. He loves the angel desperately, and wants to meet him, but something has changed. Somehow, after a lifetime on Earth of trailing after Aziraphale, his heart insists on stopping here. Somehow at this so long-awaited, longed-for step, he cannot bring himself to follow Aziraphale’s lead. Questions are hemming him in and blocking his way. What does Aziraphale mean by all this? Why now? He’s been talking in riddles, trying to say _ something_, but Crowley isn’t sure what. He knows that Aziraphale wants him, is that all it is? Is he afraid of the end of the world, wanting comfort? A distraction? Does he think that in a few more years it won’t matter—that once the War is over, no one will question an indiscreet dalliance or two?

He can’t move forward like this. Crowley has to know the truth. It is he himself who has changed, he realizes. He’s not Crawly anymore, he doesn’t have to let himself be fucked into rapture and then left in the morning when Aziraphale decides it’s best all around—at least not without knowing it beforehand, he thinks. They’ve become friends since then, they’ve become equals. Crowley has a right to know what Aziraphale means. He may be a sorry, lovesick bastard, he may take whatever Aziraphale offers and beg for more, but he won’t be led around in the dark. If Aziraphale is offering, let him offer properly; if he wants something from Crowley, let him ask.

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes into his mouth, “you still love me, don’t you? Please say you do.”

Crowley pulls back, holding the angel away by the shoulders, fighting to meet his eyes, fighting to hold steady. “I’d say I’ve been obvious enough about that.” He is at war with himself. He can’t believe he’s doing this. What is he thinking? If he can just keep going, though, just hold steady. He can do this, has to do this. He has the right. “But you—I believe you had a tale to unfold?”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably, has the grace to look ashamed. “Yes,” he says, and sounds chastened. “You’re right, of course.”

“Not that I’m saying no,” Crowley hastens to add. “To anything. It’s just—what am I getting into, here?”

“Ah—right, that’s a fair point. I suppose I’m not entirely sure myself. When you said that just now, about that day at the Globe, I thought that you might still want...you know.” Aziraphale gestures helplessly between them.

“What—d’you mean you didn’t _ know?_” Crowley cannot believe it. Had he done his job so well, after all?

“I—well, to tell the truth, it’s been so long, and you haven’t said anything since before the Arrangement about—well, I thought that maybe it had died, what you felt for me once. That I had killed it myself with my caution.”

“Hm. You took a hell of a crack at it.”

“Forgive me.” Aziraphale blushes. “I was afraid of so many things. I was certain you were lying in the beginning, to tempt me. I thought you were my third trial—my third failure, really. After the sword and the lie at the Gate, you seemed to have been sent to me as punishment, or a final test, and I failed it horribly.”

“Flattered.”

“No—I don’t mean it like that, I just mean—this weakness I have for you, I’ve never been able to shake it, and—”

“Aziraphale, what are you talking about? You’ve never touched me, you’ve never done anything except occasionally gawk a bit.”

“Oh my dear, you have no idea.” Aziraphale looks at him meaningfully. “Wait here a moment, there’s something I ought to show you.”

Crowley stares at him, wondering what he could mean. Aziraphale gets up and walks to the back of the shop, shuffles things around deep in a corner cabinet. When he returns, he is holding a small box of cedar.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he says. “And I’m sorry I never explained all this, but by the time I had come to terms with things, you seemed to have cooled off, and I thought you’d be very rightly angry with me if I tried to set the clock back after renouncing you for so long; and besides, I was very ashamed of myself, and afraid you’d be punished, or I would, and I’d never see you again—but now I _ won’t _ ever see you again, unless we stop this Apocalypse, and the thought of all that wasted time is just too much, so...I have to tell you.”

“I’m...confused,” says Crowley. He has barely followed Aziraphale’s nervous rambling, but the words are hurting him. “Tell me what, exactly? What did you come to terms with?”

In all the time Crowley has known him, Aziraphale has never looked so unsure of himself. “Here,” he says with an unsteady voice, and holds out the cedar box with unsteady hands. “You can see for yourself.”


	4. Allegro Ma Non Troppo

**Oh, I cut his hair myself one night  
** **A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light**

“All this time?” Crowley asks brokenly. “You kept it all this time?” The little cedar box lies open on his lap, cradled lightly in his fingers as though it were made of glass.

Aziraphale cannot meet his eyes, cannot bear the look of betrayal. He feels a vile thing, selfish and dishonest, and tries to spit some of the feeling out. “Well it’s hardly my most extravagant self-indulgence. I’ve done much grander miracles for very much poorer reasons.”

“You never told me.”

“I was afraid to.” He can feel Crowley’s anger rising.

“You had it with you, during the Flood?” It is not a question; Crowley already knows.

“Yes.”

“At Rome? _ Paris?_”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your sorry. I want a bloody explanation. I want to know what in the fuck you mean by this, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale implores, “I _ couldn’t _ tell you at first. The way you used to talk back then, I was certain Hell would kill you; and it would be my fault if I encouraged it. And I was already so ashamed of myself for having such an attachment to a...a demon in the first place.”

“Some attachment. It was a thousand years—”

“I know.”

“And almost that long before Egypt—”

“I _ know._”

“Then stop interrupting me! You’re going to _listen_ now. Eight hundred years before Babylon. Seven hundred and seventy-four until Athens. The next time was Jerusalem, and you barely talked to me then. Then you show up in Rome, and I didn’t even _ask_ you that time, and you still fucked off for another five centuries. You only let me hang around after I stopped saying what you didn’t want to hear. So one more time,”—Crowley’s voice falls measured and dangerous—“what do you mean by showing me this?”

—

Aziraphale realizes, halfway through plaiting a lock of fine hair behind Crawly’s ear, that the demon has fallen asleep. His breathing is soft and deep, and his whole body is pressed heavy against Aziraphale, all its restless tension melted away. One of his hands rests on Aziraphale’s chest, elegant fingers curled as though paused in the act of reaching for something (or offering it). 

The strange trust implied in Crawly’s peacefulness makes Aziraphale unwilling to disturb him. He reaches carefully and plucks a white thread from his own robe to tie off the braid. He has never slept before, but lying here by a warm fire, breathing the warm fragrance of Crawly’s hair, watching the stars glide across the blackness—sated, trusted, admired for once in his life—Aziraphale finds he has an inclination for it. He eases himself into a pool of sleep, and floats unconscious for several hours, untroubled for the first time since he took up his post at the Gate.

When Aziraphale wakes, the night is far advanced. The fire has burned low, and the desert cool is encroaching. Crawly has curled up closer, still asleep; his arm has crept across Aziraphale’s chest and is hugging him tightly, and his face has burrowed into Aziraphale’s neck. The demon must be dreaming, for he shifts and murmurs a little, and Aziraphale can feel the twitch of fingers in his robe, and the twitch of Crawly’s cock against his leg.

A feeling stirs in Aziraphale then that he does not have a name for. It is fierce like anger, wild like fear, but hollow and sick, like guilt. He fancies suddenly that everything outside the light of their dying fire is a threat—as though the surrounding darkness is crowded with lions’ teeth and grasping claws. He wants to cover and crouch over the slender creature in his arms—to hide him with his body, to keep, protect, possess. With a groan, he clutches Crawly to him before he can master himself, and Crawly wakes with a little gasp, startled.

“What’s happened?” he asks, pushing himself off of Aziraphale. He looks around, confused and fearful, half-asleep.

Aziraphale sits up, self-conscious. His strange passion is dissipating, and now he does not know how to explain himself. “Nothing,” he says, and rubs a hand over his eyes. “It was nothing, I’m sorry I woke you.” 

Crawly peers at him curiously, then looks up at the sky. It is deep blue now, rather than black, quickening on the eastern horizon. “It’ll be morning soon,” he says. “I’ve never slept this long before.”

“I’ve never slept at all before,” Aziraphale admits. “Have you done it often?”

“Once or twice,” says Crawly, then quirks a half-smile. “But never because I felt alright.”

A painful cord is plucked in Aziraphale’s heart at that, but he doesn’t know what to say. He watches as Crawly straightens his robes and runs a hand over his hair. Crawly’s fingers catch behind his ear on the braid that Aziraphale finished while he slept. He toys with it for a moment, bemused.

“You like my hair,” he says slowly, as though trying out a new idea. 

“Well, I—yes, what of it?” Aziraphale feels a little defensive at his sudden embarrassment. “It’s very soft, and I’ve never seen hair that colour before.”

“You like to touch it.”

Aziraphale blushes. He wonders if Crawly is taunting him. “Would you prefer that I didn’t?” he mutters a bit sulkily.

Crawly cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he says. “I would give you some, if you wanted it.”

“What?” Aziraphale looks up sharply. He feels as though Crawly has caught him doing something shameful—as though he has seen the very thought that passed secretly through Aziraphale’s mind while Crawly slept. Aziraphale had wondered, as he fastened the end of the plait, whether Crawly would notice if he were to cut it off and keep it for himself, to touch whenever he wanted. He had driven the thought away barely acknowledged, unwilling to shock himself once more in a day already full of shocking behaviour. Crawly’s unblinking yellow eyes seem to stare straight through him now, and Aziraphale’s heart is fluttering.

He is about to deny emphatically that he wants anything of the kind, but Crawly has clearly already seen the truth of it on his face. With another thread drawn from the hem of his robe Crawly neatly secures the top of the braid. There is nothing of ridicule in his expression—only mild curiosity, indulgence, and (is it possible?) fondness. 

“Go ahead,” Crawly says, turning his head to the side. “You can have it.”

It would be feeble of Aziraphale to protest now (and ungracious as well, he reasons). He swallows, reaches up hesitantly. Pinching the hair between two fingers above the knot of black thread, he slices across it with a little blade of light, and the braid falls into his hand. Crawly shivers.

“Did I hurt you?” Aziraphale asks quickly, concerned. But Crawly shakes his head. 

“Not at all,” he says quietly, absently, as if his thoughts are far away. “You haven’t hurt me at all.”

“Well...that’s good,” says Aziraphale, confused. “And thank you for this,”—he nods at the lock—“I don’t take it lightly.”

“No…” Crawly is watching him intently again. “I think you don’t take anything lightly.”

Aziraphale is feeling more and more unsettled by the demon’s persistent scrutiny. He wants a distraction, something to busy his hands. Looking down, he bends for a moment to tear a scrap of fabric from low on his robe. He folds it securely around the plait with a quiet little protective miracle against any damage. When he looks up again, Crawly is still staring unnervingly at him.

“What is it?” asks Aziraphale, a slight edge to his voice.

“Are you sure you’re an angel?” Crawly asks. 

Aziraphale gapes at him, his chest tightening in fear. “What do you mean by that?” he asks, as panic creeps into his throat.

“Well,” Crawly muses, “you’re not much like an angel, are you? Giving away a deadly celestial weapon, for one; wanting...things; and you’re being awfully friendly with a demon. What do they make of you up there?”

Aziraphale feels ill, and his eyes are burning. Crawly might as well have struck him on the face. The demon must know, he must have sensed along with his other intuitions: how Aziraphale has struggled to meet expectations in Heaven; how he fears the Almighty and the Archangel Michael; how he has never seemed to make a close friend.

“There’s no need to be spiteful,” Aziraphale says brusquely, trying to conceal his hurt. “It was a difficult day, and I may have made a few mistakes, but—”

“It was a compliment,” says Crawly. “I wouldn’t like you if you were a _ good _ angel. Make as many mistakes as you like, especially with me.” He leans toward Aziraphale, caresses his arm. “We’ve got time for a few more, you know, before the sun comes up.”

Aziraphale flinches away from Crawly and scrambles to his feet. “What are you playing at?” he cries. “This isn’t a joke, are you trying to get me thrown out?”

Crawly looks taken aback. “Well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? I mean, they don’t chuck angels into the Pit anymore; you could just stay here, with me.”

“How can you suggest such a thing? I’m an angel—a soldier—my life’s work is the service of Heaven and the defeat of Hell!” 

“Alright then, you can go defeat Hell during the day, and at night I’ll help you relax after all the soldiering. Deal?”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Aziraphale says harshly. He feels backed into a corner, mocked and played with. “I have to return to Heaven, I belong there! This can’t happen again, Crawly—never again. It oughtn’t to have happened even once.”

For the first time since waking, Crawly looks genuinely dismayed.

—

“I’m showing you,” says Aziraphale slowly, “what I’ve never been able to let go of.”

“You didn’t have to let go of any of it,” says Crowley reproachfully. “Certainly didn’t have to act like—like—”

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale pleads. “I’m truly sorry I did so many things wrong. But you don’t know what it was like in Heaven, after the War. No one Fell anymore, but it wasn’t that everything was fine. It was _ fear_. Everything became silent and rigid, and everyone was suspicious and only said what was expected. It’s still like that. I never quite measured up to standards to begin with, and then you came along, and…” He spreads his hands helplessly.

“And told you you were a terrible angel,” Crowley finishes for him with a defeated sigh. He hands the cedar box, still open, back to Aziraphale. “Why did you keep it, then?”

Aziraphale takes the box, runs a finger over the braided lock nestled in the scrap of white fabric. “I wouldn’t have parted with it for the world. I’ve wanted you single-mindedly since we met, I’m afraid, and despite how it ended, that night was...truly my best memory. I fought against it for ages, for many reasons—at least partly because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you for good and all, and at least partly because I felt utterly overpowered by you.”

Crowley snorts, disbelieving, but Aziraphale can see that his anger is receding. “It’s true,” he continues. “You didn’t just tell me I was a terrible angel, you made me want to be one. I was terrified of you. But you kept coming after me, and I only ever had the barest ability to say no, and eventually we became friends, and—well, by the time I had stopped trying to deny my love for you, I didn’t have much hope of its being reciprocated. I tried to test the waters in Paris, but you ate. I’d never seen you eat before; it seemed a clear signal that you’d given me up. I just kept it to myself after that. I wouldn’t have told you now, only you made that comment, and I thought that you might still—besides, we have so little time left, and frankly I’ve grown very, very tired of you not knowing.”

Crowley is staring at him open-mouthed. He raises one hand, thumb and forefinger pressed together in a gesture emphatically demanding clarification. “Your _ what?_” he asks, incredulous.

**And he told me that I'd done alright  
** **And kissed me 'til the morning light**

Aziraphale is blushing scarlet, clearly in deep distress, but Crowley is temporarily unconcerned for the angel’s comfort. Too many things are happening at once. He is feverishly reassessing sixty centuries of history. At least one of them, he knows, has been a shocking idiot, but he is no longer certain that that honour belongs exclusively to Aziraphale. When _ had _ Crowley stopped talking about love? It must have been long before the Arrangement—the early Middle Ages?—had he actually said it in Rome? No, it’s been—nearly twenty-five hundred years since he last said the words. What a horrible comedy of errors. How often have the two of them suffered at their own hands as much as at each other’s? How many things could they have done differently? How much time have they wasted? But Aziraphale is sitting next to him now, declaring himself a lover, holding a lock of Crowley’s hair like a treasure; and Crowley wonders whether those questions are even worth asking anymore.

“My what…” Aziraphale is trying to follow Crowley’s outburst. “Ah—my love for you. Yes, I suppose I’ve never said it, have I?”

“You suppose…” Crowley passes a hand over his face. “No, Aziraphale, you’ve never said it. You never bloody said it, never hinted at it, never—”

“I take your point,” Aziraphale cuts him off. His voice is strained to breaking. “And I’ll be happy to spend the next eleven years begging your forgiveness, if that’s what you want. But it occurs to me that there might be better ways of spending our remaining time? Depending on your feelings, of course.”

His feelings… Crowley braves the tempest between them to risk a glance at Aziraphale’s face. He sees his own state of mind mirrored there: a turmoil of want and hurt, hope and regret at war with each other. They could easily stay locked here, neither moving, as they’ve been locked in silence for millennia now. Crowley doesn’t want that, he knows he won’t make Aziraphale wait very long. He’s never been one to stand on his pride where the angel is concerned; it’s surprising enough that he’s held out this far. But his heart is long-wounded and badly battered, and he may not be above asking for a bit of salve, since Aziraphale seems for the first time ready to give it.

“I think first I’d...like to hear a bit more of what you have to say. I understand it’s a harrowing tale.” Crowley cannot quite look up, but he watches Aziraphale’s hands as they close the box and lay it aside.

“Do you mean,” says Aziraphale in a low quaver, “that you want me to tell you about...how I love you?”

Crowley nods, staring fixedly down at his whisky. His cheeks are burning, but he refuses to let his embarrassment stop him from asking for this, the first thing he ever really wanted. Aziraphale shifts closer on the sofa, and Crowley can hear a smile in his nervous voice when he speaks.

“Let’s see, then, what haven’t I told you...did you know that most of these books are about you, in one sense or another?” Crowley shakes his head slowly, considering, and sips his whisky as Aziraphale continues. “I’ve collected them as remembrances, since the manuscript of Hamlet. Everything that reminds me of you.”

“Really...that’s a lot of reminding.” Crowley takes another sip; he feels hot, and a little unmoored. Aziraphale’s knee is touching his.

“Did you know that I love it when you turn up to do me a favour, or help me out of a scrape? Your generosity to me is...very thrilling.” Aziraphale’s voice drops lower. “You’ve always been so kind…” 

Crowley’s hands are trembling. He decides not to attempt another drink, sets his glass down on the table. Aziraphale lays a hand on his knee.

“And I should confess that once or twice I might have—deliberately gotten myself into trouble, just to enjoy the excitement of you coming to rescue me. You make an unparalleled white knight, you know.”

“Now you’re just being insulting,” says Crowley, but the hoarseness of his voice gives the lie. Heat is prickling up his leg from his knee where Aziraphale’s hand is stroking and squeezing; but it’s Aziraphale’s words that have unsteadied his breathing, that have his cock starting to strain wet against his trousers. Crowley asked for this, but he may yet, he thinks, have to pray that he’ll survive it.

“I’m not,” says Aziraphale. “I love you for your kindness. It does terribly unangelic things to me. I almost had you against the wall of the Bastille, when you showed up like that.”

Crowley barely chokes back a noise, tries to hold still and hold himself together. “Huh. I’d never have known,” he manages. “Shame we weren’t talking about things then.” Aziraphale winces slightly (job done), but doesn’t back off. He’s probably encouraged by the effect he’s having, as Crowley can do very little to conceal it. Aziraphale leans in close to his ear.

“Of course I don’t have to tell you that you’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Your beauty has hunted me since the moment we met. You were all I could think about, when I was alone. That night in the desert—your mouth, your skin—you don’t know what it is to touch you. I’m never more than a hair’s breadth from begging you, when we’re together.” Crowley’s every muscle is taut with the effort of staying still. Aziraphale’s breath is heavy on his neck, and his hand has trailed upward to sweep Crowley’s hair away from his ear. “I’m sure you wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve dreamt of. But I’ll tell you, if you want me to—every fantasy, even the ones I’m ashamed of; every way I’ve touched myself, imagining it was you; everything the mere memory of you made me feel—I’ll give it all to you, there’s never been anyone else.”

He won’t be able to stand much more of this. Crowley’s whole body is shuddering, his throat is tight. He wants to cry out, or hide his face, or beg Aziraphale to fuck him now. Aziraphale’s hand in Crowley’s hair has come to rest on the back of his neck. It is the only thing holding Crowley steady now, as Aziraphale lays a soft kiss below his ear; and another on his cheek; and another next to his lips. Crowley is about to turn and surrender, but a thought stops him—twenty-five hundred years. He should say it now, Aziraphale has suffered too, he should try.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, struggling, “you know that I—I mean, you _ know_, don’t you, that I never stopped—”

“I know,” Aziraphale says. “I believe you, and I understand why you stopped saying it.”

“I wasn’t lying, not ever.”

“I’ll always be sorry I doubted you. When you said that morning that I wasn’t like an angel, I really panicked, shut every gate. But please believe that my intentions were never…in the night, I mean, when you fell asleep in my arms, I wanted to keep you forever. I wouldn’t have left like that.”

“It started out as a pretty good night,” Crowley croaks. He cannot breathe.

“The best night of my life.” 

It’s going to happen—the door is open, and Crowley can hold off no longer. He is broken into pieces, into nothing but need. “Well…care to try for a better?”

“My dear, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Aziraphale’s hand is strong on Crowley’s neck, turning him so that they face each other finally, drawing him forward, hot as before when they shook on their deal. He eases Crowley into a kiss, not demanding, but giving; and Crowley is ready (painfully ready) to take. He finds to his surprise that he cannot rush. His body is panting for touch, for relief, but every pull of Aziraphale’s tongue is another confession, and a deeper need is met by the care that he feels reaching to the heart of him. 

He tries to remember that he has permission to reach out. He can hardly comprehend that he need no longer hold himself in check. He can touch and speak and show himself. Can he? Is it even possible? He has learned, and learned well, to hide, deflect, keep his hands off. Can he unlearn it all in one evening? Maybe just one thing at a time. With effort, he raises his hands to Aziraphale’s neck. He feels the pulse there flutter, feels the vibration of the sound of longing that rises from Aziraphale’s throat. He can touch—it is welcome, he will not be spurned.

Apart from the hand on the back of his neck, Aziraphale seems nearly as tentative as Crowley feels. His free hand moves uncertainly—lighting now on Crowley’s thigh, now at his shoulder, now his hip. He must be afraid as well, Crowley realizes. He has his own history of learning to bury these things. Maybe they can help each other. One thing at a time. With the thrill of committing a dangerous act, Crowley drops his hands to Aziraphale’s lapels and, with Aziraphale’s timid cooperation, pushes the coat off his shoulders. Aziraphale does the same with Crowley’s jacket, and their kiss breaks breathless as fingers begin to push at fabric and fumble with buttons. The process is maddening—modern clothing was not made with love in mind. Crowley stops, shaking with frustration, his hands at Aziraphale’s collar, Aziraphale’s hands at his belt. He needs the angel’s body against him now, and doesn’t care how it happens.

“C’mere,” he says, and takes Aziraphale’s arms to pull him forward. Crowley leans back, makes room between his legs, and draws Aziraphale over on top of him, into a heavy kiss. This is better, he thinks, this is what he wanted, this is at least some of what his blood has been screaming for all evening (all his life). He is wrapped in heat; the pressure of the angel’s chest eases the ache in his own. Aziraphale’s thighs between his thighs, his cock hard against him, the weight of him holding Crowley down, keep him from flying apart in his need to be had.

But while Crowley is anchored in the embrace, Aziraphale seems almost torn apart at the seams. His brow is furrowed as if in pain, his movements are jerky, and every breath is rougher, closer to a sob. His fingers dig into Crowley’s shoulders, and he kisses uncontrolled at Crowley’s ear and neck and jaw. Crowley cries out when Aziraphale suddenly sinks his teeth into his collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale gasps. “I’m sorry, I—can’t seem to get ahold of myself. After all this time, I don’t know what to do. I want everything at once—”

“It didn't hurt,” Crowley whispers, lost and urgent. “D’you mind if I…” He plucks at Aziraphale’s sleeve to ask permission. Aziraphale nods, and with a sweep of Crowley’s hand, their clothing disappears. The sudden nakedness is jolting; Aziraphale bucks against him with a little cry. Crowley moans and hides his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, overwhelmed by touch—it is everywhere, sharp and electric, more than he’s ever been touched before. His body is thrumming. If the angel doesn’t fuck him soon, he’s going to come from nothing but the graze of skin on skin.

Aziraphale seems to have found a sense of direction without their clothing in the way. His hand moves surer now, down Crowley’s side, under his thigh, up and inward, fingers slick. His other hand returns to Crowley’s hair, combing and tugging, drawing shuddering noises from him. Crowley starts to squirm, but his cock is pressed under Aziraphale’s hips, and Aziraphale’s fingers are stroking inside him—the movement almost undoes him then and there. He falls still, keening and clutching Aziraphale’s arms.

“Crowley, I need—may I have you?” Aziraphale whimpers into his neck. “Please, may I have you? I don’t mean to rush, I’ll wait as long as you like, but—” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley grinds out from between clenched teeth, “if you don’t get on with it, there won’t be anything left of me to have.”

With a broken laugh, Aziraphale withdraws his hand and adjusts their bodies. He is as hesitant as he is eager, looking up at Crowley and down again at their hips as though unsure whether he is really allowed. He presses into Crowley gently, with care, but begins to quake and falter as soon as they are joined. His breathing is ragged, and he seems unable to move. Crowley looks at his face and sees real distress—the angel could be on the verge of panic.

“What’s wrong?” asks Crowley quickly, fearful.

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale shakes his head, his body tense, his grip tight on Crowley’s shoulders. “It feels precarious, like everything’s about to topple, like it’s my fault. Oh god, what’s going to happen to us now? Have I ruined everything? I wanted it so much...”

Suddenly Crowley sees very clearly, in a way he couldn’t before, what made Aziraphale run from him after the desert. He sees Aziraphale teeter on a razor’s edge, sees him stagger on a wire between what he is and what Heaven wants him to be. Crowley thinks he understands, thinks he might know what to say. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs into Aziraphale’s ear. “I’ve got you now. I’ll hold you up.” And he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s back and pulls him closer, encouraging the angel to let his weight down on him. Aziraphale gives in, his arms give out, and he presses his face to Crowley’s throat with a stricken cry, sinks into him as deep as he can go; and Crowley holds him and doesn’t let him pull away. He whispers that they’re safe here, that nothing is ruined, that Aziraphale hasn’t done anything wrong. Aziraphale steadies after a moment, sighs, and kisses Crowley’s lips with a little regretful smile.

“I'm sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” Aziraphale says. “I know you’re right, we won’t be found out. We’ve gotten away with everything else. And this is more than worth the risk. I—I promise I’m going to take better care of you next time.” He strokes Crowley’s cheek with the back of one hand, looks for approval, and slowly begins to move.

“You’re taking care of me fine,” Crowley says, and means it. He’s already hovering back toward the edge now Aziraphale is rocking into him. “Just don’t stop now, and don’t leave this time.”

“Oh, never,” breathes Aziraphale. “Never again.” And he covers Crowley’s mouth with his own and finally begins to fuck him—controlled and decisive, showing his strength—and soon Crowley is struggling and panting for more. Aziraphale reaches and takes him in hand, and Crowley is utterly taken. His mouth and his cock and his entire body and his entire self are in Aziraphale’s power now; he cannot even move himself, but only cling on and ride the waves of Aziraphale’s force. He begins to tip over, gasping into Aziraphale’s mouth, and Aziraphale thrusts harder into him, until they are both of them shouting and spasming, and Crowley is spilling hot between them, and Aziraphale’s free hand is clenched and twisted once more in Crowley’s hair.

After a long few minutes of catching their breath and quietly reassuring each other, Aziraphale pulls away and rests his head on Crowley’s chest. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, voicing a thought that has come to him in the aftermath, “what should we do if the plan doesn’t work? I mean if we can’t keep the Antichrist from rising to power?”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Aziraphale says sleepily. “But if it does, I’ll do everything I can to get you a pardon. Bring you back over, get us back on the same side.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “That’s not gonna work, they don’t pardon demons. Why don’t we just run off if that happens?”

“Run off where? I can’t leave Heaven for good, angels don’t Fall anymore. But don’t worry, the plan will work. It’s a good one. It won’t come to that.”

“But what if it does?”

“It won’t. I’m sure of it.” 

Aziraphale’s confidence does little to set Crowley’s mind at ease, but he supposes they’ll have the next eleven years to know in advance whether his wildly improvised plan has a chance of succeeding. He made it without much hope in the first place, wanting only to spend Earth’s final years in Aziraphale’s precious company. He’ll have more than he hoped for now, even if it all comes to ruin in the end. Crowley lets himself be content with that. He sighs, and kisses Aziraphale’s head, and slowly falls asleep.


	5. Appassionato

**Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down  
** **Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one**

How much sweeter is anger, Aziraphale thinks, than fear or grief—he has feared today, grieved today, until he believed it would be the breaking of him. He knows that Crowley has too. The world didn’t end, but tomorrow they will have cause to fear again (and very probably to grieve). Tonight they have stolen this brief respite, while Heaven and Hell collect themselves, and here in Crowley’s sepulchral flat their anger flows between them like myrrh, pouring sweet and fragrant from their lips. It billows in their voices like incense; the air is thick and heady with it. Aziraphale breathes the anger in, to suffocate the dread that coils in his stomach. They stand apart across the bedroom doorway, accusing one another, and Aziraphale watches the muscles work in Crowley’s jaw.

“You shouldn’t have left,” Crowley is saying. “You said you wouldn’t leave. You said _ never again_.” 

“_You _ said you wouldn’t try to get me thrown out,” Aziraphale tosses back at him.

“There wasn’t any other way.”

“You wouldn’t try to _ find _ another way! You were blaspheming horribly. You never even _ considered _ coming back over to Heaven.”

“I’m a _ demon_.”

“And I was _ trying _ to get you a pardon. To get us on the same side!”

“We can be on the same side without Heaven.”

“And be hunted forever? Is that what you wanted? To run and hide from Heaven and Hell for the rest of our very short lives? I suppose that’s what we’re in for now anyway. You must be thrilled.”

“We’re not dying tomorrow. The plan will work—”

“You said that about the last plan! And you didn’t believe it then either, did you?”

Crowley stops short at the accusation. It is all the confirmation Aziraphale needs. He is about to press his advantage, pathetically triumphant in not having been the only one of them guilty of dishonesty and cowardice. But Crowley turns on him suddenly, looming and leaning, crowding Aziraphale back through the bedroom door.

“This time it’s different,” Crowley snarls. “We have the prophecy, it’s going to work. The only question is whether or not you’ll run off again after it’s all over.”

Aziraphale falters, falls back a step into the bedroom, but straightens up and looks Crowley in the eye. “Of course I won’t run off,” he says scornfully. “I never wanted this to end.”

“Then that was quite a show you put on at the bandstand.” Crowley continues to push forward, backing Aziraphale into the room.

“It wasn’t a show, it was doubt. Nothing _ you’d _ know about, I’m sure.” Aziraphale’s calves collide with the bed and he falls, sitting hard, Crowley towering over him.

“I never doubted _ you!_” 

“Well you’re the only being alive who can make such a claim.”

Aziraphale reaches to pull himself up, but Crowley seizes his wrist and drags his teeth over the blue veins there. “How many times,” Crowley’s voice scrapes, “am I going to watch you walk away from me?”

“At least once more,” Aziraphale flings back, his eyes wet and burning. “Tomorrow morning. So if you still want me, you had better have me now.”

Drunk with the anger still shimmering hot in the air between them, Aziraphale doesn’t resist Crowley shoving him roughly onto his back on the bed. He revels in the impact, fiercely glad to pour lust on top of their anger—perhaps the sick despair they have barely contained will be swept away in the flood of it all. But when Crowley climbs over him, his face is not angry—it is desolate and frightened, an image of defeat, a perfect image of the expression he lifted to Aziraphale’s eyes as he knelt on the air strip earlier today, trying once more to say goodbye. 

Crowley has been saying goodbye to him since yesterday, and Aziraphale has had about all of it he can stand. He knows he’s not blameless, he knows it too well. He yielded at the bandstand to his whispering doubts: that Crowley couldn’t truly have misplaced the Antichrist; that he couldn’t have simply forgotten to tell Aziraphale about the hellhound; that it all must have been a cruel deception; that Crowley must have discovered Aziraphale’s love long ago and used it to blind him to Hell’s machinations. 

The doubt seemed impossible to fight at the time. After all, what was more likely—that he, a foolish and covetous angel, should be an object of true love to the Architect of Sin? Or that he had believed what he had desired, and had given away a weapon of Heaven yet again? For he had given himself to Crowley, he knew, and would never fully get himself back. 

Aziraphale yielded in the face of his doubts, pushed Crowley away, and Crowley has been saying goodbye since that moment. It was feeble at first (_have a nice doomsday_), and only a little less transparent, though much more desperate, in the morning outside of the bookshop. But there at the airbase this afternoon, Crowley said goodbye and finally meant it. The Earth was trembling, Satan was coming, and Crowley was trying to prepare them to die.

_ It’s been nice knowing you_, he said, and something deep in Aziraphale snapped. He was furious with Crowley for giving up before they’d had a chance to properly reconcile. The brushes of hands and significant looks they had shared as the world splintered about them on the tarmac were not nearly enough in the face of death; they were nothing. Nothing _ could _ be enough. What could well conclude a passion as old as the Earth? What could answer the past eleven years between them? It couldn’t be over, they had had no play yet, only eleven years of parode after the first vast prologue: eleven years of bliss overshadowed at every turn by the threat of annihilation; eleven short years of love given voice at last, but only to be whispered in corners and shadows. They could not die yet; they had not yet lived. And besides, Aziraphale thought desperately to himself, Crowley always hated tragedy.

_ Come up with something_, Aziraphale cried. _ Or—or I’ll never talk to you again. _ And I must talk to you, he demanded with a look. I must speak—please, by the mercy of God. How dare you do this? Every fate is damnation if we end it in silence.

Crowley looked up at him, battered, cringing, covered in soot. Even so, he was beautiful—his slender shoulders, his graceful neck—he should not have had to bear this weight. But there was no one else. Aziraphale would have taken it if he could, but he cannot think quickly as Crowley does. The most he could do was to drag Crowley along, to spur and brace him, to try to give him strength.

It worked. Aziraphale saw the moment that Crowley decided what to do: his face twisted with effort and he staggered to his feet, threw up his arms with power and hurled defiance at God in Her Heaven. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he felt himself transported out of time, and opened them again to a brilliant light, a familiar breath of soft, dry air, and sand beneath his feet.

They were back in the desert—Crowley had taken them to the desert east of Eden. Aziraphale would have recognized it anywhere: the fragrance of distant water and salt, and even more distant green; the sky bright and deep and unpolluted; the sand as fine as powder (he remembered digging his heels into it that night as Crowley had moved on him, remembered it cradling his head as they had slept by the fire). For one sweet moment, Aziraphale breathed and let it sigh all through him—this birthplace of his honeyed fall, where Crowley had drawn the first drops of him out of the wasteland inside, like dew on desert jasmine drawn miraculous from desert air.

But then he understood that Crowley was still trying to say goodbye. This was his way, his parting gift. If they did not survive, these final moments would pass where they first knew one another. Aziraphale saw the pain on Crowley’s face, and knew what it must be for him to visit this place again. Aziraphale felt it as well. This desert beyond the Garden was—for them as for all humanity—a well of bitterness and an endless landscape of sweet things lost. 

Aziraphale has been livid with resentment since then. He recognizes that the desert was a gift, but it was a gift more severe than any rebuke: to revisit the site of his first ruinous failure as the world suffered from his last. A perfect tableau of Aziraphale’s weakness where Crowley is concerned. And Crowley has not stopped saying goodbye, even now, when Aziraphale has lost everything else: his faith in Heaven, his self-respect, the only sense he’s ever had of who he’s supposed to be; and everything he wanted to be on Earth—his beloved bookshop, all his memories, the little box of cedar that held his first, most precious possession. It is all lost now, and he has only barely held on to Crowley for one more night. 

He needs their anger; he needs their lust. He cannot bear to see Crowley look at him like this, as though he were already dead and gone. He has no strength for it. Aziraphale will crumple like paper under the weight of his grief, but tomorrow_—tomorrow _ let him grieve. Tonight let him live, let them fuck and fight and warm each other with the heat of their blood for as long as they can. Tomorrow they will have to accept the cold. (Why should this plan work any better than their last one?)

Struggling against the grip on his wrist, Aziraphale lifts his head to bite Crowley’s throat, and palms Crowley’s cock through his trousers. “If you want to keep me,” he goads, “then _ keep _me. Stop waiting, stop asking, and for God’s sake stop trying to let me go.”

“Leave Her out of this,” Crowley growls, but he does what Aziraphale asked of him. He wrests Aziraphale’s hand from his trousers and pins it with the other above his head. Pressing Aziraphale’s hips beneath his thighs, he bends low over him to whisper in his ear, “If you want this, I’ll give it to you. But you have to trust me for one blessed time. I’m done standing in a half-open door. Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop—but if you say we’re on opposite sides again, that’s it for us after tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” says Aziraphale, straining beneath him. “I promise.”

“I don’t need you to promise. You’ve promised before. I need you to show me.”

Aziraphale blinks, then blinks their clothing away and breathes deep and heavy into Crowley’s neck. “Alright,” he says. His anger is fading and leaving a desperate emptiness behind. “Tell me what to do, just help me now. I need you, it feels like I’ve been breaking forever—I can’t hold together anymore.”

Aziraphale feels Crowley clench his jaw and release his hold on Aziraphale’s wrists. Then suddenly he is hauled over onto his stomach, pressed into the sheets as Crowley straddles his legs, and a firm hand pushes on the back of his neck. Long fingers trail down Aziraphale’s spine, and Crowley’s cock slides wet between his thighs. Leaning down over him, Crowley places one finger against his lips.

“We’re going to survive,” he murmurs low, and dips his tongue into Aziraphale’s ear. “We’re going to survive, don’t you dare tell me I’m lying.” He pushes his finger into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale groans and sucks it deep, and tries to rub against the silk underneath him. He can hardly move, the silk feels like nothing, and his frustration carries to his panting breath as Crowley continues to fuck his thighs.

Aziraphale’s cock is full and dripping when Crowley pulls the finger from his mouth and presses it into him without letting up his weight or even spreading Aziraphale’s legs. Aziraphale cries out and tries to shift; no part of his body is being touched enough. But though Crowley’s movements are as delicate as lace, Aziraphale is powerless to alter them. He feels with a shiver that he is glad to be powerless—here for once he has no say, and no responsibility. Crowley is lifting it all from him (another burden that he should not have to bear), and Aziraphale goes weak with sudden gratitude. All Crowley ever does is try to give him gifts (however poorly he has deserved them).

“I believe you,” he says softly, “I trust you, please.”

“Believe what?” Crowley insists. “Say it.”

“We’ll survive. We will. I know you’re not lying.”

Crowley withdraws his weight, and nudges one leg between Aziraphale’s knees. “Is this what you want?” he asks. “Is it really what you want?” He works a second finger in. “Not just because there’s nothing else left—tomorrow too, after everything’s done?”

Aziraphale tries to push back against him, but Crowley holds him down with a hand between his shoulders and continues to work him open at his pace.

“I thought you didn’t want promises,” Aziraphale manages through his struggle. Crowley is holding him near his release—perspiring, tense, spun out like thread between the fingers inside him and the silk under his cock, neither quite enough to snap him. “But of course I want you—that never changed—you know it wasn’t a question—oh—please, Crowley, _ please_.”

Crowley says nothing, but pushes a third finger in. He is hungry for something—Aziraphale can sense his need, though he can only see him from the corner of one eye—but it’s something he apparently refuses to voice. He curls his fingers inside, pressing down, and Aziraphale veers toward the edge, sees stars, clenches his teeth and prepares himself; but the fingers are withdrawn before he can finish.

Aziraphale cries out in protest, but Crowley shushes him gently and draws him up and back by the hips. He runs soothing hands over Aziraphale’s back and over his arms, spreading them wide upon the bed like wings. He positions himself and presses his chest to Aziraphale’s back, the cool skin and contact a blessed relief. He lays a kiss to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and his voice comes husky when he speaks.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” he says. “I’ll love you even if you do leave tomorrow. It’s always been like that, I never stopped. Never questioned it, never of all things. If this is what you need, you’ll have it angel, angel…” Crowley continues to whisper the endearment as he sinks into Aziraphale slow and sure. When he is sheathed, he lays his head lightly on Aziraphale’s cheek, eyes closed, brow furrowed, and kisses him there.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale works the name through the constriction of his throat. He is lit up with agonizing clarity now. “Crowley, I...renounce Heaven.” 

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s breathing stop and the muscles in his arms and chest tighten above him. “I want no more part of it,” he continues with a cracking voice. “If they don’t kill us, and even if they don’t throw me out, I’ll reject them just the same. I refuse my place there, I shall never go back. I choose you for good or ill, forever, out in the open. H...Heaven be damned.”

Crowley does not speak. They are still and silent for a moment. Then he whimpers slightly, kisses Aziraphale’s ear, and that raw edge of hunger that Aziraphale felt from him sighs out of Crowley as he starts to move. His right hand releases Aziraphale’s wrist—trails up his arm, down his side, over his hip; cool fingers close around his cock, and stroke. That must be what Crowley needed of him, and it is certainly what Aziraphale needs as well. He takes Crowley’s weight upon his back, lets Crowley fuck him; lets himself be chained in Crowley’s arms and conquered by his body and sealed away at last, at last. Let one seal only be set upon his heart, Crowley’s and no other. Heaven be damned.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley chokes out, “if you mean that—god—_fuck_—say it again.”

“Oh—_damn _them,” Aziraphale moans, and Crowley plunges into him with a cry, driving to the hilt. “God damn them, Heaven and Hell and all the Hosts—”

“Angel, god, oh god, we’re going to live, I promise—”

“Yes, and together—the Kingdoms can _ fuck _ themselves—”

“Ah—_ah_—” Crowley loses his rhythm, stutters erratically, his hips jerking; Aziraphale comes hard, driven forward onto the silk by Crowley’s thrusts, his cock pulsing hot in Crowley’s hand.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale,” Crowley cries softly into his neck as they quiet and eventually separate. “That fucking fire today, I thought you’d gone.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, “the bookshop, you mean?” He wriggles out from under Crowley’s limp frame, slides up to the pillows and draws Crowley to his side, onto his chest. “You thought I had died. Is that why you took us to the desert today? A chance for a proper goodbye, just in case? I was terribly angry about it, you know.”

“I did notice,” Crowley says with a watery irony, having collected himself somewhat. “It was partly that, partly just—it’s the first place I’d think of when we need a moment’s peace. And...big things ought to end up where they started.”

“Mm,” says Aziraphale. “Particularly things that do not end.”

“Brave words, coming from you,” says Crowley, but he holds Aziraphale a little tighter. “Shall we get some sleep? Lots of flouting authority and fighting for our lives tomorrow.”

“Very much like today, then. I fear we may grow accustomed to it. But the point’s well taken; we can swap in the morning, after a few hours rest.”

Crowley grunts, and Aziraphale falls silent. There is more he ought to say, but a kind of peace has settled which he does not wish to disturb. The fog that Crowley had briefly dispelled with his brightness is closing back in on Aziraphale now, and he does not wish to burden Crowley with it further. Aziraphale has failed in every other way today, utterly failed. The world didn’t end, but no thanks to him—a pathetic excuse for an angel, indeed. He wielded no weapon, commanded no strength. He was unable to raise even a hand against destruction, contributing nothing, in the end, but a few frail words of encouragement. 

But no, he corrects himself, no, that’s wrong. His heart is pierced with renewed clarity. Here on his chest is the hand he raised today—Crowley’s hand, that stopped time so Adam could save the world. Crowley did it for _ him_, at his word, stood up for him. Oh, he has gotten the whole thing wrong! He saw Crowley forever as the symbol of his weakness, but it isn’t so at all. Crowley is his strength. Aziraphale may be nothing without fire and steel, but Crowley was the sword in his hand today. Aziraphale can be what he damn pleases, so long as he can lift up this shining and splendid creature at his side. 

And it’s always been like this, hasn’t it, he thinks, a bit awestruck. Right from the Beginning, Aziraphale felt more like an angel raising him up; more like an angel than he ever felt in Heaven. He can fall for that. He tightens his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and kisses the top of his head (a week has not softened Aziraphale’s dismay at the short-cropped hair), but Crowley has already nodded off. The night must end soon, one way or another. Aziraphale settles in to wait for the dawn.

**And the history books forgot about us  
** **And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once**

They are walking in silence toward Crowley’s flat, and Crowley is thinking of a conversation, one week ago—he had swaggered into the bookshop holding a bottle of scotch, and Aziraphale had dropped his ledger at the sight of him.

_ You’ve cut your hair_.

_ Good of you to notice. _

_ I hate it. _

_ I thought you might. _

_ Is it your preference, then? _

_ It’s just for the week. If we prevent the Apocalypse, I’ll grow it out again. _

_ But why cut it at all? _

_ Like I’ve said, it’s for you. Only for you. If anything goes wrong, and they come after us, they’re not gonna touch it. It’s yours. I’ll grow it back after. _

Well, Crowley thinks, they haven’t touched it, and now he can let it start to grow again. Aziraphale will be pleased, and Crowley, as always, will be pleased at his pleasure. But that’s not why he’s thinking about the conversation. 

He’s thinking of the look on Aziraphale’s face. It was more than disappointment at the temporary denial of a pleasure that Aziraphale had come to expect. He loves to touch Crowley’s hair, and Crowley loves to gratify him. But Aziraphale’s reaction in the shop that day was not proportional to the loss of just another of his many indulgences. He looked as though he had come unanchored. His eyes looked...lost. Crowley has been puzzling on it all week, on and off.

Eleven years ago, when Aziraphale had shown Crowley the lock of hair that Crowley had given him outside Eden, he said that it was what he’d never been able to let go of. He said that he had a weakness for Crowley that he’d never been able to shake. And long ago in the desert, after the first time, he’d said that he liked Crowley’s hair because it was beautiful, colourful, soft. Soft. That word had always stuck with Crowley. Why had it seemed so important to the angel? It had come with an emphasis that Crowley couldn’t parse.

The trial in Heaven today offered new understanding. It was the first time Crowley had been there since he Fell. It’s changed. Aziraphale had told him that, too. All eerie silence and echoing spaces. No wonder Aziraphale seemed to prefer his dark, cluttered bookshop, nestled in Soho, surrounded by noise. Heaven was too bright, too wide, so cold and empty—it was truly a desert, more barren and dry than the desert east of Eden. It was colourless too, and ugly, Crowley thought. No taste. But most of all, Heaven was hard. Crowley had not expected that. He had expected it to be more like Aziraphale: strong but gentle, powerful but kind. The Archangels were strong, and certainly powerful, but nothing in the whole place was gentle or kind. The walls and floors and light and faces: everything was rigid, steel-set, hard. 

You don’t get into the Good books by being soft, Crowley supposes, any more than you get into the Bad. Softness isn’t of Heaven or Hell; it’s an earthy thing, like soil, like green. It’s made its way into the both of them, over the years, running like rivulets through the cracks of them. Yes, into Aziraphale too, for all his apparent solidity—Crowley saw the softness in him yesterday, he cannot deny it anymore. Not that it renders the angel less enthralling; only a little more approachable. Crowley dared things last night that he would never have dreamed of, even during the past eleven years, and all they’ve dared.

They’re out of the books now, Good and Bad alike. Crowley watched the Quartermaster do it, watched Aziraphale’s name flicker and disappear from the registry. Aziraphale told him that Dagon had done the same. He had felt a real sorrow when Aziraphale’s name was erased. If Crowley hadn’t heard it from Aziraphale’s lips last night (he shudders at the memory for the thousandth time—_I renounce Heaven_—god, he could bring himself off to that every day), he would have panicked and begged Gabriel to reconsider.

That was the strangest thing about it all. Heaven was bone-chilling, ugly, and hard; but once you were there, there was something about it you wanted, _ needed_. You felt like you’d be nothing without the place, nothing of value. Gabriel knew it. He knew that Aziraphale would put up with the taunting, the indignities they so dismissively subjected him to, for the sake of holding onto that scrap of whatever it was that made Heaven feel like air in your drowning lungs.

And Aziraphale had put up with it, for how many thousands of years—he held onto Heaven through it all, and Crowley finally understands why. But he nearly gave it up once, long ago, for what? For a lock of Crowley’s hair. For something beautiful, colourful, but most of all soft. It was the softness, that un-Heavenly thing, that had almost tempted Aziraphale to ignore the most piercing spiritual need Crowley has ever experienced (and he a demon—what must it feel like to an angel?).

How is it possible that Aziraphale even considered it? Crowley feels shamefully churlish now, for the light he used to make of Aziraphale fitting in badly in Heaven, or getting thrown out. He feels like an ungrateful prick for the resentment he’s harboured at Aziraphale’s failing to choose him sooner. It seems like a miracle now that Aziraphale would choose him at all. But he has. Now that Crowley knows what Aziraphale rejected last night, he feels a bit dwarfed by his own unworthiness of it.

Is that why Aziraphale was so upset when Crowley had cut off his hair? Not for the loss of a pleasure but for the loss of something that helped him to resist Heaven’s thrall? It was, Crowley guesses, the first bit of softness that was given to Aziraphale, with the first suggestion that Earth could be his home. It might have made him wonder if he could have consolations and pleasures without incurring the kind of treatment he received from the Archangels. Crowley remembers how quickly Aziraphale assumed he was mocking him when he offered the braid. And he remembers a million more times when the angel clamped shut at jokes that swerved too close to sedition. He never recognized Aziraphale’s testiness for what it was—sheer survival, a way to stay tethered to Heaven’s emotional narcotic, when the price of that lotus-flower was humiliation and abuse.

Crowley’s meandering revelations have brought them all the way to the corner of his block. He has never felt a more clamouring need to take care of the angel in some way. Aziraphale has been sparkling and light as champagne since they met up in Berkeley Square garden, but Crowley cannot imagine that it is so easy to feel himself stricken from Heaven’s record, severed from Heaven’s grace. It may not be a dive into the Pit, but in a very real way Aziraphale is fallen now (If they did the same in Hell, does that mean Crowley is risen? Not important—deal with it later).

“Thank you for lunch,” Aziraphale says. “It was lovely.”

“Um, think nothing of it,” says Crowley, wholly inadequate. “Lift back to the bookshop?”

“Maybe later?” Aziraphale looks hopeful. “We’re here now, do you mind...if I come up?”

“Well, of course,” says Crowley, puzzled but pleased. “Think of the place as yours, no need to…” He waves his hand as if to brush away the strange formality.

Up in the flat, wine in hand, Aziraphale looks at him across the sofa, considering. “This place is like a tomb, you know,” he says. “But I like it better in the daylight.”

“Thanks?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m talking nonsense because I don’t know how to frame an apology.”

“Well at least you haven’t started quoting Hamlet yet. What exactly are you apologizing for?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says. “For everything. For last night, for asking so much of you and giving so little. For my anger, and before that my doubt. Mostly, I suppose, for treating you for so long as something that I ought to resist but couldn’t. You are not a temptation, or an illicit indulgence, or something to be gotten away with. You are my commandment, Crowley, I believe it, as much as if you were written in stone before my eyes. You are, and I’ve broken you. I am so dreadfully sorry for it all.”

“Ngah—wh—fuck, angel, am I supposed to follow that? I was going—was thinking about Heaven today, how it feels to be there, and I...get it. Why you never wanted...or what you were hanging on to. I didn’t mean to push so hard, Alpha Centauri was a stupid idea, and I’m...really sorry I got you thrown out.”

“Crowley, you didn’t.”

“I did, I was there, I watched them write you off—”

“No, dear, I mean, you didn’t _ get _ me thrown out. I chose to leave. Or do you not recall our...conversation last night?”

Crowley blushes. “Of course I do, it’s just—you’d never have left if not for—oh that’s really arrogant isn’t it? Shit.”

Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley can see that he is restraining a laugh. “It is not arrogant, you are perfectly correct. I would never have left if not for you. And I’m very grateful to you for it. You have been my liberator, not to say my saviour.”

Crowley works his jaw for several seconds, at a loss. “Liberator?” he asks faintly. “Bit much, I’d say?”

“I wouldn’t. I can taste the freedom. I’m drunk with it.”

“That’s the Grenache.”

“Shut up, my love.”

“You didn’t...break me, you know, if that’s what you meant. I know we’re always talking about three or four things at once, but if that was...you didn’t.”

“Thank you. As ever, you are endlessly kind.”

“Anyway, I should be thanking you,” Crowley rushes on when he has swallowed the moan, stifled the shudder, wondered if he’ll ever get used to that word. “I’m off the books now, too, you got me out. That’s a lot, everything really, more than I can ever—”

“Please,” Aziraphale interrupts, “don’t go near the word ‘repayment’. If we go down that road, we’ll be here until the next doomsday; and frankly I would be giddy with delight if we could remove all arrangements of a transactional nature from our relationship. I prefer gifts, free and without obligation. Much more appropriate to the liberated. For example, I give you myself, of which Heaven no longer owns any part. You may accept it or not, reciprocate or not, everything is honourable. I offer because I can, and I want to, and I love you, and I feel so deliciously alive right now just being able to say it that I could...well, I could spit in Gabriel’s face. What do you say to that?”

Crowley can say nothing, his voice having been lost entirely somewhere around the word ‘myself’. He can do nothing but stare, astonished, red in the face, hopelessly aroused but too much in love to be very embarrassed about it.

Aziraphale gives him a long look over. “Actually,” he says, “I’ve got a better idea. Will you join me by the window?” He stands and moves to the wide French doors, draws up the blinds to let daylight in, unbuttons his cuffs, and begins to roll up his sleeves. Crowley follows him mutely, swallowing again, watching warily as the muscles shift in Aziraphale’s forearms. He takes the angel’s outstretched hand and allows himself to be pulled into a kiss. The minutes stretch out golden and rich, and when they part, Aziraphale has Crowley pinned gently to the door with his back against the sun-warmed glass.

“Would you like to take this into the other room?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s hair. 

“No,” says Aziraphale, nuzzling his neck, “but I would like you to take your trousers off, if you’d be so good.”

“What—here? But...anyone can see?”

“Precisely.”

“Angel—”

“Entirely at your pleasure, of course. But I for one have had more than enough of keeping to the shadows. It would please me to love you in the light. To be honest, I’d do this up against the Gate of Heaven if I thought it wouldn’t earn us both a good smiting. As it is, with your permission, I shall have you here for the world and any of the Hosts to see.”

Aziraphale smiles serenely as Crowley chokes and sputters and tries to decide. He glances out the window over his shoulder. The street is busy but far below them—no telling what could be made out from there. But more to the point is the heat that flares in Crowley’s belly at Aziraphale’s words, the angel’s possessive hands on his hips, the thought that Aziraphale is proud of him.

“Alright, then,” Crowley mumbles at the floor, trying to conceal a smile. “Do as you like, I’m...at your service.”

“Ah—no, dear boy,” Aziraphale says. “Not this time. I’m at yours.” He snaps his fingers, and Crowley is standing in nothing but his shirt. Aziraphale kisses him again and drops to his knees, holding Crowley firmly in place by the hips. His grip is tight, which is just as well—Crowley’s legs have nearly given out; this is not what he expected, and the day has been surprising enough as it is.

He drops his head back on the window and presses his palms against the glass as Aziraphale runs his tongue over the inside of one knee, gently bites the tendon just above it, drapes Crowley’s leg over his shoulder and mouths up his inner thigh, murmuring over Crowley’s gasps and sighs.

“Why, look you now,” he says with a smile, “how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would pluck out the heart of my mystery. You would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass.”

“It’s gonna be the other way around if you—ungh—if you keep talking like that. And what is it with you and Hamlet, anyway?”

Aziraphale looks up from his attentions to Crowley’s thigh. “I told you: that was when I fell in love with you. Or stopped denying I was in love with you. One of those. It’s never been fully clear to me.” 

“You never told me that.”

“Didn’t I? Well it was.”

“You said it was when you started collecting books, but...oh—got it—right.”

“You don’t mind, then? Only there are certain things I’ve wanted to say to you.”

“‘Honeying and making love’, are we?”

“Don’t be crass.”

“Angel, half of London can see my bare ass right now.”

“It’s a sight to behold. How they must envy me.” Aziraphale runs his hand up and down the outside of the thigh slung over his shoulder, and turns his head to the other leg, kissing the shin and sinking his teeth into the muscle of the calf.

“Don’t know how you expect to keep me upright for this.” Crowley’s voice is as tenuous as the trembling muscle in the one leg holding his weight. His cock is twitching; he nearly collapses when Aziraphale flicks his tongue across the back of his knee.

“Rashly, love, and praised be rashness for it.” Aziraphale slides his hands high on the backs of Crowley’s thighs. His fingertips press in the soft flesh there, firm to bruise, but not to break. “I’ll hold you. You’ll let me, won’t you? In the Beginning, you let me hold you up. I haven’t forgotten. You’ll trust me to do it again?”

Crowley nods, breathless, even pushes himself down a little onto Aziraphale’s fingers. He can’t help it—the feel of muscled forearm against his thigh—it’s all he’s ever wanted to be held in those hands. And to hear Aziraphale tell him...tell him...anything. So many things. “What was it you wanted to say to me?” he asks, near ready to beg for it.

“Only what a piece of work you are,” Aziraphale says, and as though it were nothing, he ducks his shoulder under Crowley’s other leg, lifts and steadies him, takes all his weight on his arms. Crowley’s hands scrabble for a moment at the glass until he feels that all he need do is lean back. Aziraphale has him balanced, supported, and begins to trail kisses up his thigh once more.

“You are noble in reason,” he murmurs again, “and infinite in faculty.” He sucks a bruise into Crowley’s hip and rises to one knee, head bowed. Crowley flushes from ears to chest at the genuflection. He can hardly stand this, but be damned—blessed—if he won’t take it all, everything, everything. He _ is _ out of the books, out of Hell, he is risen, and he will be raised up—by Aziraphale’s hand, no other.

“In form, in moving,” Aziraphale continues smugly, “how express and admirable.” He kisses the base of Crowley’s twitching cock and licks the dripping from it. Crowley’s writhing and strangled moans do not unsteady his hands. “In action”—Aziraphale smiles—“how like an angel.” He rises fluidly to his feet, and Crowley gasps in the dizzying rush toward the ceiling. “In apprehension, how like a—”

“Stop—” Crowley cries, one hand flying from the window to Aziraphale’s hair. “Not that one,” he works out through gulping breaths. “Not that one, it’s too far.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, and tenderness softens the blaze in his eyes. His smile is almost pained with praise as he whispers, “The beauty of the world. Oh, my dearest soul.” And he lowers Crowley in his hands to take his cock into his mouth with a dip of his head.

The sun is warm on Crowley’s back, the world laid out below them. He rides Aziraphale’s hands like a tide, rolled to and fro at Aziraphale’s will as though he weighs no more than a coracle. He’s swept along to the tipping point embarrassingly fast, but the fear of falling overtakes him again when he feels himself start to lose control. Probably Aziraphale can hear the taut uncertainty threaded into his cries, for he shifts his hold higher to stabilise Crowley’s quaking, thrashing body. He drinks him down when he comes, lets Crowley cry himself hoarse and thump his head on the window and whiten his knuckles gripping Aziraphale’s hair. When it’s over, Aziraphale lowers them smoothly to the floor and slides Crowley into his lap, still slumped against the glass. He kisses Crowley’s lips and eyes, and Crowley soaks up his love like rain, greedy for it, lets it flow into his skin. They are free, basking in the freedom of this sublime anonymity, no longer the Serpent or the Angel of the Eastern Gate, but only this, what they are to each other.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbles in his ear, “I don’t mean to nag, but now that we’re out and safe, would you please consider...” His fingers drift into Crowley’s hair.

“Already started. It’ll be back in a few weeks, keep your shirt on.” Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and kisses him once before rising shakily to his feet and clothing himself. “Come on, let me take you to the bookshop. You’re dying to go, we both know the only reason you came up was to give me a good seeing-to in front of Gabriel and anyone else who’s pissed you off.”

Aziraphale stands, blushing, and begins to roll down his sleeves. “I assure you my intentions were purer than that. Besides, I don’t believe any of them were looking. They’ll be leaving us alone, now, as you said. But...if they were looking, there’s nowhere in the shop to...well, I will take a lift, thank you.”

Crowley smiles, and glances once out the window as Aziraphale takes his outstretched hand.


	6. Con Amore

**You are my sweetest downfall**

He is going to do this forever, he thinks, and kisses the back of Crowley’s neck. Why not? He doesn’t have to stop. There’s no work to do, no authority to appease. He could spend centuries here, listening to his name fall from Crowley’s lips. It is twilight, Aziraphale is dimly aware, and he breathes in the mingling light and dark, luxuriant. Why does the air most swell with fragrance at twilight? As though the spirit of the world is loosed in the planet’s tilting; as Aziraphale’s spirit was loosed in his tilt toward the earth. Freedom for him was not a flight but a fall, a sun diving down into the waiting arms of his lover in the depths. Dusk is the hour of liberty for all lovers, and Aziraphale’s lover and liberty are one.

Crowley lets his head fall back onto Aziraphale’s shoulder with a weak little sigh. His curls whisper soft as starlight over Aziraphale’s cheek, and Aziraphale breathes the warm fragrance in. He breathes deep, feels himself shift in Crowley’s body, pressing upward, and Crowley makes a fragile sound as his cock hardens again under Aziraphale’s palm.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale murmurs in his ear. “Do you want to stop now?”

“Not yet,” says Crowley, barely a wrung-out breath. “M’fine.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale has lost track of the hours they’ve stayed like this, nestled in the lowlit bookshop, Crowley on his lap in Aziraphale’s wingback chair, his back pressed to Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley’s skin is chilled under the faint sheen of sweat; he is over-strained, he must be by now. He draws another tremulous breath, and Aziraphale caresses him chest to belly with a firm hand, soothing and steadying. Crowley’s own hands cling weakly to the arms of the chair, and his thighs no longer shift and tense, but only quiver occasionally. 

“Not ready to be done yet.” Crowley slurs the words a little. “Just stay a bit. Wanna keep...unh...everything feels full.”

It does at that, Aziraphale thinks as he kisses Crowley’s temple. Full and flowing over like honeycomb, reckless in abundance and dripping with life. These evenings in the shop have been drawing out longer in the weeks since Armageddon, as the two of them have slowly grasped that there’s no more need to rush or hide or whisper. 

Reaching carefully, Aziraphale takes up the glass on the small side table, ignoring Crowley’s frail whine at the loss of Aziraphale’s hand on his cock. “At least have a drink,” he says, raising the wine toward Crowley’s lips. “To fortify and warm you up a bit. Come on.”

“Don’t need to be fortified,” Crowley mumbles, apparently unable to lift his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder. But he lolls sideways into Aziraphale’s neck, takes Aziraphale’s hand, guides the wine to his lips and drinks, and sighs again. “Thanks,” he says with a little more vigour.

Aziraphale hums and takes a sip of the wine himself. He sets it down beside the cedar box that holds the lock of braided hair (it is never put away now), and returns his hand to cupping Crowley’s half-hard cock. Crowley makes a low, pleased sound and nuzzles under Aziraphale’s jaw.

These are the moments that Aziraphale has come to crave above all—unguarded, uncautious, when the thorns of their bitter past are forgotten, and the sweetness they lost in the desert is reclaimed. It happens more frequently now. Heaven’s sun has set on Aziraphale, and Crowley’s blossoming trust in him suffuses the air with as much sweet promise as jasmine at nightfall. Aziraphale would fall again, a thousand times, would pour himself into this fragrant twilight over and over, to see the full flower of the tentative peace that is opening in well-loved, honey-gold eyes. Fools seek freedom, he thinks, in hard light and high places—or perhaps it was only foolish for him; his freedom lies low in the dark earth, the soft shadows and lilting stars. He will crown Crowley’s head with jasmine, here where they meet at the edge of night and day.

He rolls his hips once, barely a lift into the warm hold of Crowley’s body, a gentle reminder to both of them that the sweetest fall is in reach as many times as they will it. He pushes against the sensitive place inside, pushes another small noise from Crowley, and presses softly on the answering throb of the cock under his hand. 

“Do you want to come again?” Aziraphale asks. “Or stay a while?”

“No hurry,” says Crowley into his neck, “so long as you’re comfortable.”

“As long as you’d like.” Aziraphale expects he could stay hard for hours more, simply breathing and kissing Crowley’s hair, knowing only that Crowley is finally safe, that Aziraphale’s love is no longer a threat to his life. The feeling of imminent, infinite loss that attended so much of their history was always such an oppressive weight—much harder to bear than the scrutiny of Heaven or the life-long silence of God.

But now—_now_—Crowley will live, and Aziraphale too; they will live forever and have joy of each other, and that is a knowledge to make all things new. Aziraphale runs a possessive hand over Crowley’s stomach again, letting it slide through the wetness of sweat and spill that they have elected not to miracle away. He savours the warm, sticky mess of it all, for that is life. Let the lifeless desert be cool and dry as far as the eye can see. They will make fire in it as before, make it wet with their dripping, make it full with their life.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale murmurs to Crowley, “we both made little tombs for ourselves in the last centuries. You with that mausoleum of a flat, and I with this vault of memories on paper.”

“Mm, I s’pose,” says Crowley, still a bit bleary. “But that’s where ghosts live, isn’t it? Tombs? Even ghosts in a harrowing purgatory or whatever it was.” He lays an unsteady hand over Aziraphale’s hand on his stomach.

“Yes, well not anymore, I’d say. We lived, as you promised. But we’ve lived too long expecting to die. Perhaps we should consider moving on.”

Crowley tenses up a bit at that. “How do you mean?” he asks, a thread of caution returning.

“I only meant that the living don’t belong in tombs,” Aziraphale hastens to reassure him. “We could leave these places behind, start a life together. We have eternity now, to live.” He lays a kiss to Crowley’s neck to punctuate his reassurance.

“Oh. Yes, alright,” says Crowley, relaxing back into him. “New place, why not?” He lowers his voice to add, “I’d go anywhere with you, you know.”

“I would build it for you,” Aziraphale says breathlessly, with another roll of his hips. He can’t help himself. He’s talking nonsense again, he knows, but Crowley’s response to him in this state always inspires his most absurd protective passions. It is too overwhelming, he cannot be contained by the rational in the face of Crowley’s trust; he must spill over into nonsense. He would tear lions apart with his hands, would topple the pillars of Heaven and Hell, to ensure a safe place for Crowley to live and grow his garden and say such honest things.

“What are you on about?” Crowley asks. He is rallying his defensive irony, Aziraphale notes with regret. Perhaps Aziraphale can dispel it. He begins to move again at a gentle pace, stroking Crowley lightly with one hand and holding him close with the other.

“I would,” Aziraphale insists brightly, smiling into Crowley’s hair. “I would build you a home myself. I would raise it up stone by stone above your head, and keep you safe.”

“Sounds like the knell of impending discorporation. You don’t know the first thing about masonry.”

“What cheek. I studied under Ictinus.”

“I’ll bet you did. Not a handsome symposiast in Athens whose cups you weren’t studying, those days.”

“He laid a good table. But no, my love, no. I was being quite literal when I said that there was no one else.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant. And I know that you’d never have asked me. But no. It was a paltry fidelity compared to what I wish I’d given you. But once I’d known you, how could I possibly have been moved by another? It was never a question.”

“Oh. Well.” Crowley falls silent, pretending indifference, perhaps, but his body betrays him. He is hard and urgent again. Aziraphale warms with pleasure, and longs to say something—anything—more. These little words are never enough, and Crowley almost always deflects them. Aziraphale tries not to say too much, but it breaks his heart to hold his tongue. He wants to pour out praises into Crowley’s lips, to flow with devotion, to give himself, all.

His one frustration in the weeks since they and the world survived has been the sense of limitation in words and acts too small to communicate what he means. He enjoys finding new ways to heal from the past, to warmly affirm what he used to deny. He treasures these days and nights that blend in luminous twilight as he tries to work past Crowley’s age-old defenses, with acts of love and such words as Crowley will accept. But ultimately he cannot speak his heart merely by drawing out the hours of their unity. An infinite need cannot be met by a finite act, no matter how enthusiastically they ‘practice the work of lovers’.

Lovers. Aziraphale silently rolls the word on his tongue. It is accurate, certainly. Is it adequate? The words matter, he must choose them with care. Would Crowley allow him to say something stronger? Earth has no words that would truly suffice, but it is a kingdom of free will (to which God has generously granted privacy from Her commanding presence); a kingdom whose citizens are bound by time but made for eternity. And here they have made certain actions the like of which Heaven and Hell know not.

“I want to make a vow,” Aziraphale says suddenly, burning with this new idea. Crowley stills. Aziraphale continues, hoping that he does not meet with ridicule. “Do you think you could turn around to face me?”

Crowley says nothing for several seconds. “You want to stop?” he asks uncertainly.

“Just for a moment, just to turn you around. Is that alright?”

Crowley nods and lets Aziraphale lift him up and ease him off of his lap. He turns unsteadily, not quite meeting Aziraphale’s eyes as he allows himself to be drawn back into their embrace. He kneels over Aziraphale in the chair, but his legs seem to give out when Aziraphale pushes inside him again. Aziraphale holds him upright with one arm around his waist, just as he did in the Beginning, and gazes up hungrily into eyes that he has missed for too many hours. This, he thinks, is right and well. And he can speak, he can act—his liberty is rampant in him like a lion. He will follow this impulse; he hopes it will not be denied.

“So,” says Crowley, blushing and looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder, “you wanted to what?”

“To make a vow,” Aziraphale says. “A pledge of my troth to you, my deliverer.” 

“What is this, the court of Marie de France? And I’m not your deliverer.”

“You are.” Aziraphale smiles broadly, delighted by the sublime irrationality that holds him now as sweetly as Crowley’s body. He decides to pour it all out before Crowley can laugh it off. “You brought me through the desert out of bondage, so I am delivered. Free to make any choices I want. My will is a star partly of your making, fiery and absolute. Or maybe it’s a sword. Either way, I can think of no better way to wield it than a vow. I am so free that if I act, I must act eternally. My will shall not be curbed by anything, not even time, not even my future self. And so I vow to love you, and no created thing before you, for the rest of my days. Do you accept?”

“What, no ring?” Crowley is grinning with bright eyes but threadbare composure. He is clearly moved, in spite of himself. Aziraphale laughs and thrusts up into him, encouraged and abandoned to the merriment of his fancy.

“I will give you a ring, if you like,” he declares. “I will call you husband and drape you with gold, and summon our friends to the wedding feast. We shall dance, and scatter dishes and grains, and burn fragrant woods deep into the night, and drink plenty of wine, but not too much. And you will bring flowers and apples to our bedchamber, and lie down with me in silk and linen.”

Crowley is laughing too, now, between his sighs and their sounds of pleasure. “How could I say no?” he says. “And for my part, I promise to tend to you, since you’ve obviously gone insane.”

“If you will tend to me,” says Aziraphale, growing serious, “let it be because you know that you hold all my strength in your hand.” He winds his fingers into Crowley’s hair, overwhelmed all of a sudden. The practiced ease with which Aziraphale has fucked all evening (coming only upon request) has deserted him. He feels erratic and a bit desperate. Maybe he has shown too much; he would not take any of it back, but he has never been able to bear Crowley’s teasing, however gentle, for very long. Aziraphale’s mirth bubbled up with the lightness of truth—fanciful and absurd, perhaps, but nothing he said was actually a joke. Crowley, on the other hand, is still armed with his irony. It feels like a dismissal, and although it is likely not meant as such, Aziraphale finds that he cannot stand it. “Really, Crowley,” he says, clinging recklessly, “I do need—oh my life, my soul—please don’t say no.” 

“Oh. Don’t worry,” Crowley says with wide eyes, and wraps both arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “Don’t worry, angel. I’m sorry for joking. I had to, it would’ve been too…if you were joking and I wasn’t… But of course I accept. I’d vow the same, flowery language and all. You know. Doubt thou the stars are fire. All that. I mean I do vow it. Really.”

However stumbling, these words apparently have power to ravish him. Aziraphale bows his head, trying to get a grip on himself under the crashing fulfillment of a need he wasn’t aware of. Suddenly it has become much more difficult to control his heartbeat, to fade his want and the pressure around his cock into the background of his mind, to distance himself from the skin and sweat and singing nerves all over him. He takes two deep, urgent breaths, and tries to keep his hips from jerking. 

“That’s okay too,” whispers Crowley, who must sense the change. He presses closer, holding tight, which does nothing to soothe Aziraphale’s trembling. “I’m ready too. Let’s finish for the night.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs against Crowley’s chest. “Together? If you can?”

Crowley nods, his curls dancing across Aziraphale’s brow, and sets a rhythm as Aziraphale takes him in hand. They move together, not for very much time before spilling again onto and into each other, crying out and clutching; the fall is brief, but all the sweeter for having been plighted and sworn. They seal this final consummation with a kiss, and Aziraphale allows himself to soften and slip away until they are, at least physically, separate once more. He holds Crowley for a while in both arms, breathing and dripping and slowly calming. He murmurs continuously from old songs, “Love, ah love, my fair spouse and bright,” and listens to Crowley laugh soft and sweet as the twilight drifts into night.

**I loved you first**

Well, Crowley thinks, that was an unexpectedly dramatic conclusion to six or so hours of an otherwise peaceful afternoon dalliance. Aziraphale surprised him again—a rare enough occurrence, though it’s become more common since the world didn’t end. He laughs dazedly as Aziraphale whispers ancient endearments at him, but worries a bit lest his laughter cause unintentional harm, as his jokes clearly did.

He hasn’t considered before that his little quips might be a source of distress for the angel. They usually match each other parry for parry. Crowley picked up the habit so long ago—it disguised most sentiments that might send Aziraphale off into one of his long silences. To that extent, he’d say Aziraphale earned it. But, apocalyptic fallings-out aside, Crowley knows that Aziraphale has been trying to make it up with him for the past eleven years; he’s been finding ways to give Crowley more of himself, more of everything he withheld for all those centuries. And Crowley has taken everything offered, but mostly by holding out his hands at arm’s length through a veil of safe sarcasm. It’s not a rejection at all, of course, but it’s far from the open sincerity that he should have known Aziraphale would hope for. Since their first night in the bookshop, how many times has Crowley actually said the words? Once. One bloody time he managed to get them out, and it wasn’t even a good one: _ I’ll love you even if you do leave tomorrow. _ The one time he said it, it was on the worst night of Aziraphale’s life, and he packaged it carefully in mistrust—made it just another part of a long goodbye.

The goodbye was thankfully aborted, the trust is growing back only a little slower than Crowley’s hair, and Aziraphale knows—he knows—but this is the first time he’s asked Crowley to say it, to say anything more. The first time he’s asked to hear something from Crowley’s lips other than _ yes _ and _ fuck _ and _ Aziraphale_. Meanwhile he’s been showering Crowley with beautiful words—praise and apologies and countless _ I love yous_, all free gifts. Descending golden and honey-tongued to light Crowley up or melt him down, make him hard, turn him soft, lift him to the stars. And always with the same liberality: _ You may accept it or not, reciprocate or not, everything is honourable_. Patience of a fucking saint, this angel.

Enough waiting. Crowley knows that he has no more reason to be flippant and cautious, he’s known for weeks now. It’s well past time to give something back. Being with Aziraphale feels like living in a kind of permanent dawn—like the day is always starting, or it’s always the Beginning, or everything’s always young and new. He could try to give the angel some of that feeling. When he thinks Aziraphale has held him long enough, he gently disentangles himself and stands over the chair. 

“Something tells me we should eat and drink,” Crowley says. “Certain things call for a bit of ritual, whoever you are.” He holds out a hand to Aziraphale, who takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet. When he stands, Crowley has willed them clean and dry, and has robed them in long, rich dressing gowns: ivory linen for Aziraphale, and charcoal silk for himself. 

Aziraphale looks pleased and flushed. “Dear, how lovely,” he says, looking himself over.

“Not the time for modern clothes.” Crowley shrugs.

“Well, what would you like to drink?”

“I believe wine is traditional, let’s stick to that. Your choice of vintage. Back in a moment.” He meanders to the back of the shop to arrange some conjured food on a silver tray. When he returns, Aziraphale is holding a heavy glass bottle, looking sheepish, and he begins to laugh when he sees the food that Crowley has chosen.

“We seem to have had similar ideas,” Aziraphale says, holding out the bottle.

Crowley sets the tray down on the table in front of the sofa, relieved that Aziraphale has not misinterpreted his choice of flat white bread and pomegranates. He takes the bottle and sniffs at the open neck.

“Spiced mead?” Crowley lifts an eyebrow. 

Aziraphale shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I know it’s stretching the parameters a bit, but it does belong to the wine family, and etymologically…” He trails off as Crowley breaks into a grin. “Well,” he continues, “you mentioned during the Flood that you’d never had it. It was everywhere, you know, before beer became the thing, and the taste always…reminded me of you. But by the time you and I started drinking together, it had fallen out of fashion everywhere you could get Falernum, genuine or not. I always regretted…that is, there are many things from those years that I wish we could have shared, and I thought—if it’s not too little, too late?”

“I was actually thinking the same,” Crowley says, and gestures to the tray. “It’s the first thing I saw you eat.”

Several unreadable expressions flit across Aziraphale’s face, and in the end, he pushes the low table aside and sits on the rug with his legs stretched out, his back against the sofa, and gestures for Crowley to join him. Crowley notices, as he folds up next to Aziraphale, that the rug is thick and deep, and an array of cushions now surrounds them. They can comfortably recline and even sleep here, if they wish.

“Since we’re feeling vaguely traditional,” Aziraphale says, when Crowley shoots him a questioning glance. Aziraphale has pushed the table to his right side, so that Crowley would have to reach across him to get to it. 

“Only fitting for you to play the symposiarch, I guess,” Crowley says, trying to keep his tone more fond than teasing, “seeing as this is all new territory for me. Very well, I put myself in your capable hands.”

“Hardly out of keeping with the theme of the evening,” Aziraphale says under his breath with a little smirk. He pours the wine into a glass. “But it’ll be an honour, truly.” His eyes are soft when he passes the glass to Crowley, but they light up with a dark fire as he watches Crowley drink.

The mead is rich and strong and not quite sharp. There’s a touch of heat, a hint of green. Cardamom and coriander temper the honey—it is sweet, but it does not cloy. Crowley is momentarily transported, and vividly relives his and Aziraphale’s first kiss. The night air, the fire, the distant Garden, lips and teeth and breath—somehow the mead is reminiscent. He can feel the rake of Aziraphale’s fingers in the hair behind his ears; the slow but powerful gravity that pulled him forward with a hunger he didn’t yet have a name for; and how he softly lowered Aziraphale to the ground before Aziraphale lifted him up with his body. When Crowley opens his eyes, Aziraphale is looking at him eagerly. 

“You recognize it, don’t you?” Aziraphale urges. “It has the same feel, or the smell of the place. Or something. Don’t you think?”

“It really does,” says Crowley, bemused. He looks at Aziraphale’s empty hands. “You’re not drinking?”

Aziraphale’s ears turn pink. “I would prefer to…if you wouldn’t mind…to share.”

“Ah. Right.” Crowley nods. “Traditional.” He smiles and raises his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, leans over him as if to kiss, and tilts the cup at his lips. Aziraphale’s lashes flutter as the mead flows into his mouth, but he holds Crowley’s gaze, and sighs.

It’s as good a time as any, Crowley thinks. He takes the cup away and replaces it with his own lips. Aziraphale sighs again, and his eyes drift closed. 

“I love you,” Crowley whispers into Aziraphale’s mouth. It feels stilted to say, too simple, but Aziraphale’s eyes snap open, dark and burning again. Crowley can do better than that, he thinks, and continues, “I meant everything I said earlier. Never doubt I love. You know why I stopped saying it, I think you know it never stopped being true, but I’m going to say it more. You ought to hear it as much as you want.” He means to end it there, but finds himself to his embarrassment pouring out a flood of words under Aziraphale’s rapt attention. “I love you, Aziraphale, and I vow to love you, and no created thing before you, for the rest of my days. I would marry you, you know, exactly like you said. Most obvious thing in the world. ‘What other occupation is there for a risen demon on this earth, except to marry you?’ I saw that in a book once, allowing for poetic liberties. ‘Cause you didn’t just deliver me from Hell—you’re always taking me up where the light is. I thought something like it the first time. ‘What should such fellows as I do, crawling between earth and heaven?’ Love you forever, that’s what. And that’s the last bit of Hamlet you’ll hear from me. But knowing you is like…it’s always sunrise.”

Crowley clamps his mouth shut, appalled at himself, but Aziraphale is beaming up at him, twitching with suppressed delight. He takes the cup from Crowley’s hand and sets it on the table, kisses him as best he can through his smile, and says, “My dearest, thank you. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you. There, and that’s the last Hamlet you’ll have of me as well. I promise only to quote the comedies at you from now on. How’s that?”

“Deal,” Crowley says. “Now I know it’s not much of a feast, but…shall we?” He gestures to the tray.

“Are you sure about this?” Aziraphale asks, taking up a piece of bread. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“It means something different, now. I trust you. And it’s a simple enough place to start. I don’t think I’ll ever have a taste for crêpes, angel, sorry.”

Aziraphale nods, and tears the bread apart. It looks soft enough. Crowley remembers that it was made with stone-ground grain, clean water, salt. And fire. Simple things, shouldn’t be too tough to take. Aziraphale eats all the time. Crowley shouldn’t be nervous. But he is, and Aziraphale sees it. Setting down all but a small piece of bread, he draws Crowley close with a sturdy arm around his shoulders. 

“Only if you want to,” he says, and holds up the bread. Crowley does want to; he wants to live more, to let the dawn break on a life he’s not constantly preparing to lose; and he wants to show that to Aziraphale. He leans in and opens his mouth, and Aziraphale feeds him with a little intake of breath.

The bread doesn’t taste like much at all, but it _feels_ like earthly life, thick and substantial. Aziraphale watches as he chews and swallows, and this time Crowley is glad he ate. This time it’s not a test, or a sign of giving up—it’s an affirmation of their life together, an act of faith. (Crowley would never use the word ‘sacrament’, but it’s hard not to think it, knowing what he knows.) In an attempt to shake off any contemplative inclinations, he rolls onto Aziraphale’s lap, snatches another piece of bread from the table, and holds it between his teeth, offering. Aziraphale takes the bread and the kiss, and reaches for a pomegranate.

“Did you bring a paring knife?” he asks, searching the tray.

“Um, no,” Crowley answers, fidgeting a bit. “Back then you—uh—used your hands, um, and…”

It is Aziraphale’s turn to raise an inquisitive eyebrow as Crowley fumbles and trails off. Understanding slowly dawns on the angel’s face, and Crowley can feel his cheeks grow hot. But Aziraphale does not mock him. He only stares at Crowley with a curious solemnity, raises the pomegranate between them, and splits it open with his fingers. Crowley watches the tendons flex in Aziraphale’s hands, watches the tightening of muscle in his wrists and forearms where the sleeves of his robe slip down, the momentary stop of his breath in this minor effort—and nearly chokes on his tongue. Aziraphale smiles a little at that, but without ridicule, and oddly without losing the air of ceremony as he turns one half of the fruit face-up and offers it.

Crowley looks down at the pocket of blood-red, glistening jewels. Not so simple, this one. _ She _ made it, not them. And there’s a bit more to it than an apple. And then, to eat it from Aziraphale’s hand…he might go up in a puff of smoke right there on the angel’s lap. 

But no, this is life now, and he will live it. If eternal dawn is unbelievable, believe it anyway, out of pure contrariness. They have vowed, they have consummated, this is what’s left: Crowley takes Aziraphale’s wrist and sinks his teeth into the pomegranate, scraping ten or twelve arils onto his tongue. They burst as he bites, and flood his mouth with nectar that tastes dark like wine and bright like a sun-warmed garden. The rush is potent, but it is Aziraphale who moans, who tugs Crowley closer, leans over, and sucks a mouthful of fruit from the same segment before Crowley can pull away to give him space, who drops the pomegranate and bites Crowley’s mouth, crushing him close with both arms across his back.

When they come up for air, Crowley is trembling, and Aziraphale’s robe is stained with droplets of red nectar. He allows Crowley to clean it for him, and sets the pieces of fruit back on the tray. 

“So that’s eating,” Crowley muses. “I could get used to it, I think.”

Aziraphale smiles decadently at him. “We’ll have oysters next time.”

“Oh god, go easy on me.”

“Certainly not. We have thousands of years to make up for.”

“Good thing we’re going to live forever, then.”

“Yes. A very good thing.”

Crowley slides off of Aziraphale’s lap and reclines beside him, letting the evening’s flavours linger and his memories hold him and their promises quicken him. In the silence, Aziraphale guides Crowley’s head to rest in his lap, and lazily combs through Crowley’s hair with his fingers. Crowley doesn’t fall asleep, but he is cradled in a peace more perfect than sleep as he feels Aziraphale separate a section of his hair into three and begin to braid.

Outside the bookshop, the living Earth turns its horizon unhurried, ever toward the dawn.

—

_Before sunset on the seventh day, the men of the city said to Samson: “What is sweeter than honey? And what is stronger than a lion?” —_Judges 14:18

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw [this](https://agnesandcecilia.tumblr.com/post/188018858567/agnesandcecilia-adhdalistair-the-bible) post on tumblr and my psyche basically imploded, so here ya go.
> 
> This fic is not cohesive with [Land of the Living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351342/chapters/46038757) or my other related works. I promise I'm still spinning out the tale of our Ineffable Bureaucracy, I just got WILDLY derailed for a moment remembering how much I love Regina Spektor.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr, [agnesandcecilia](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/agnesandcecilia).
> 
> I love comments, and I will answer all of them!
> 
> By the way, aside from the Hamlet, Crowley in the last chapter is quoting Michael Moon from Chesterton's _Manalive_ (a character to whom I think he would relate): "What other occupation is there for an active man on this earth, except to marry you? What's the alternative to marriage, barring sleep? It's not liberty, Rosamund."
> 
> ALSO by the way, aside from the Hamlet, Aziraphale in the last chapter is quoting a jaw-dropping-beautiful Akkadian love poem: "Come to me! I want to be embraced as my heart told me. Let us practice the work of lovers all the night, let us not sleep!" You can read it [here](http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/akklove/corpus).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Demon in the Music Box](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215792) by [CynSyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/CynSyn)


End file.
